


working through it, together

by buddhaghost



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Depression, Getting to Know Each Other, Group Therapy, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Maybe ooc ?, Social Anxiety, Subtle Pining, alternating povs, john b & kiara are platonic soulmates, pacing? don't know her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:40:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25051819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buddhaghost/pseuds/buddhaghost
Summary: Pope is many things.A straight-A student. A scholarship candidate. A dutiful son. A great surfer.Pope is not somebody who needs therapy. And if he did, he certainly wouldn’t need group therapy.Yet here he is.___Or: John B, JJ, Pope, Kie, and Sarah meet in a six-week group therapy program.
Relationships: JJ/Pope (Outer Banks), Sarah Cameron & JJ & Kiara & Pope & John B. Routledge, Sarah Cameron/Kiara
Comments: 124
Kudos: 317





	1. pope

**Author's Note:**

> attention : do be careful if you think you could be triggered by any of the tags, and please feel free to reach out if you want to know more or think that I should add any warnings! i don't think this ever gets too dark but every perspective is different so please let me know if you feel otherwise. 
> 
> also: I did choose to tag the relationships but they are relatively subtle because writing romance is not my strong suit!:) but i do be trying.

Pope is many things.

A straight-A student. A scholarship candidate. A dutiful son. A great surfer.

Pope is not somebody who needs therapy. And if he did, he certainly wouldn’t need _group_ therapy.

Yet here he is. Upon the recommendation of the school’s guidance counselor – Pope hadn’t bothered learning her name – who met with Pope for a few thirty-minute meetings and apparently gathered enough information to determine that he needed an ‘outlet’. Somewhere to ‘connect with others’ and ‘learn to relate to people his age’.

Basically, she’s saying he doesn’t have any friends. That he lacks social skills, that he doesn’t _get_ other students. 

“Pope is undoubtedly brilliant,” the guidance counselor had said to his parents. “But I worry. There seems to be a… divide, between him and the other students. He doesn’t appear to have any close relationships, nor does he try. When I talked with him, he appeared… ambivalent, uninterested in his fellow classmates. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, but I fear Pope may be suffering from a personality disorder of some sort.”

Pope is pretty sure that a school guidance counselor doesn’t have the credentials to do any sort of diagnosing, and that in her line of work, ‘jumping to conclusions’ is typically frowned upon. And it’s not that Pope is _uninterested_ in his classmates. They’re just… not worth his time. It’s not that Pope didn’t try, at first. But he’s busy enough as it is, with school and studying and helping out his dad with work. He learned a while ago that his priorities were different from most of his classmates, and after that, he’d just… focused his efforts elsewhere. Why bother wasting them on people who weren’t even going to matter in a few years, anyways?

But unfortunately, it seemed that this mindset is what led him here, to this group therapy session. His mom drives him, walks into the building with him. The guidance counselor recommended six sessions minimum, and the first one hasn’t even started but Pope already wants it to be over. It just feels like a colossal waste of time, time that could be spent studying for AP tests or the SATs or helping his dad with orders. Being useful.

“We’re here for group therapy?” His mother phrases it like a question when they reach the front desk, like she herself can’t really believe that Pope is here for this. His parents never really questioned Pope, never asked anything more from him than what he was already giving; top grades in school, helping out around the house and the shop when he’s not studying. But the guidance counselor must’ve had said something that struck a chord with them, otherwise, Pope doubted he’d be here.

The woman behind the desk smiles and points down the hallway. “First door on the right. I believe Harriet is already in there. She’ll be running the sessions.”

Pope’s mother nods, and the two head down the hallway.

“Want me to come in with you?” She asks. Pope shakes his head. While he may not have ‘impeccable social skills’, he’s smart enough to know that being sixteen means you shouldn’t have to have your mom walk you into group therapy.

So, she leaves, and Pope pushes the door open, stepping through and letting it swing shut behind him.

There are three teens in there already, and they look up at his arrival. Pope recognizes two of them from school, though he doesn’t know their names – the boy, hunched over, with messy hair and some of the darkest eye-bags Pope has ever seen, and the girl with curly dark hair and a nose ring, slouched back, arms crossed over her bare middle, her leg bouncing up and down rapidly. There’s another girl, too, with straight brown hair parted down the middle and perfectly white teeth chewing on her lip, expensive bracelets adorning her wrists, but Pope pays her little mind. He’s not sure how he feels about having therapy sessions with fellow classmates; he doesn’t exactly need anyone in his business. But perhaps this is what the guidance counselor intended for him all along; forced bonding through trauma. Great.

There’s another woman, Harriet. She’s young, and stands up when Pope enters, smiling as she approaches him. “Hi there,” she says, and her voice is warm and not over-the-top bubbly, like Pope had been expecting. “I’m Harriet, welcome. Please feel free to take a seat anywhere.”

Pope glances at the close-knit circle of chairs. There’s six; one is clearly Harriet’s, given that she was sitting in it before Pope arrived, leaving two other choices. Meaning he’s not the last one here.

Eventually, Pope settles between the two girls, directly across from the boy, who is working at his thumbnail with his teeth. He doesn’t feel obliged to say anything, and they don’t say anything to him, either.

Harriet takes her seat and closes her eyes. She seems to be meditating. Pope glances around. They seem to be waiting on one more, won’t start without them. He glances at the clock hanging above the door. The session was supposed to start at four, Pope arrived at three fifty-eight, and now it is four oh six. Pope wonders how long they’ll wait for the no-show before they start things. He’s already itching to leave.

Eight minutes after the official start time, the door bangs open, and a boy is more or less pushed through it by a woman in a sheriff’s outfit, her hand firm on his shoulder. The boy is stumbling, slouching, trying to drop his shoulder and shake her hand off, but she remains with him until they stop a few feet from the circle. Harriet opens her eyes and stands to greet them, talking softly with the police lady while the boy stands there, rolling his eyes every so often. Pope thinks he recognizes him as well, if not from school then from around the Cut.

“You behave now,” the sheriff says sternly. The boy laughs. His lip is slightly split, looks like it had happened a while ago, but hasn’t quite healed fully. Pope wonders why.

“Don’t you worry, Peterkin,” the boy says, and slouches over to the circle, dropping himself into Harriet’s chair.

Pope wants to say something, correct him, but Harriet doesn’t seem to mind, or if she does, she doesn’t react. She simply nods at the sheriff – Peterkin – and takes the only remaining seat, between the tired boy and the white-teethed girl.

“Welcome,” Harriet says again, looking around the circle. “I’m very glad to see you all here. These sessions will be intimate, closed, and confidential. Whatever is said in this room, stays in this room, and I urge you all to share as much as you feel comfortable.”

At this, the boy who took Harriet’s seat scoffs, but doesn’t say anything. Harriet continues calmly. “Before we begin, does anyone have any questions?”

Nobody does. Pope is already dreading the coming hour, and every hour that he will be stuck in this room with these rejects for the next six weeks. Because that’s what they are; if they’re here, there must be something wrong with them. If there was something wrong enough with _Pope_ to warrant coming here, everyone else must be pretty fucked up.

“Great. If at any moment you feel you have a question, please don’t hesitate to raise your hand. I encourage any and all inquiries here.”

Of course you do, Pope thinks. And careful with your word choice, Harriet, it’s doubtful half these people know what an ‘inquiry’ is.

“We’ll start simple. Let’s go around in a circle and share our names.” She looks to her left, at the tired boy, who sighs and leans back in his chair, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

“John B.” He says. Pope wonders what the B stands for, why it’s part of his name. Why not just John? Is there a John A? John C?

The boy who came in with the sheriff goes next. Pope wonders if he’s a criminal, if he’s in jail and this is part of his sentence. It certainly feels that way to Pope. “JJ.”

The girl with the nose ring blows air out of her mouth, a strand of hair floating in the gust. “Kiara.”

“Pope.”

The girl with too-bright teeth stops chewing her lip long enough to say, “Sarah.”

Harriet nods, smiles. Like she is so damn proud that this group of teenagers are competent enough to introduce themselves. Is that all it takes, to impress people here? Pope is starting to worry for the management and general effectiveness of these sort of therapy sessions.

“Since today is the first day, I want us to start with a little understanding of the ground rules here. You are welcome to participate as much or as little as you’d like. If there is a question you don’t want to answer, you can just say ‘pass’, no questions asked. I ask you to treat each other with respect, meaning listening closely when others are speaking, and remembering and respecting that everyone’s experiences are different. This is a non-judgement zone.” Harriet continues listing guidelines that sound like they’ve been pulled from a kindergarten rule book. Pope finds himself zoning out, watching the second hand on the clock tick. The longer he watches it, the slower it seems to go.

“… to get to know each other a bit better. How does that sound?” Pope registers that Harriet had still been speaking, and blood rushes to his face when he realizes he has no idea what she said. He wants to ask, but nobody has spoken yet, and he doesn’t want to be the first to break the silence.

“Would anyone like to go first?”

JJ, who had been leaning back so that his chair balanced on two legs, falls forwards with a bang. “I’ll go,” he says. “I have blonde hair, I was dropped off by Peterkin, and I’m so fucking stoked to be here!”

Pope was hoping that JJ would give him a clue into what they were doing, but that honestly didn’t help clear anything up. It isn’t until Kiara rolls her eyes after a moment of silence and says, “you’re not fucking stoked to be here,” does he realize they’re playing Two Truths and a Lie. A fucking icebreaker game that Pope remembers playing in sixth grade.

JJ shoots double finger guns at Kiara, winking. “Ding ding ding!” He crows. Kiara makes a face at him, unimpressed.

“Kiara, would you like to go next?” Harriet prompts. Kiara leans back again, leg bouncing up and down. Her vans are dirty, the mustard yellow faded and scuffed, the laces torn and fraying. Pope can’t stop staring at them as she speaks.

“Um, okay. My dad owns the Wreck, my favorite food is plain toast, and I think the show _Friends_ is overrated.” With the last one, she shoots a glance in the direction of Sarah, who glances back but doesn’t say anything. Pope wonders what sort of history these two and the show _Friends_ have, and then decides he doesn’t actually care.

“Let me guess, you’re more of a jelly-on-toast kind of girl, aren’t you?” JJ says mockingly. Kiara holds her hands up.

“Yep, you got me.”

“Your dad owns the Wreck?” John B speaks for the first time since they introduced themselves. Kiara nods, looking at him warily. John B shrugs. “I used to go there all the time with my dad.”

There’s another silence, and Harriet says gently, “John B, why don’t you go.”

John B sighs, looks down to the bandana tied around his wrist. “Okay. I like to surf, I hate turtles, and… I’m allergic to bananas.”

This is so fucking dumb. Pope’s not learning anything about these people, and they’re not exactly sharing life-changing facts about themselves, either.

“Who the fuck hates turtles?” Sarah bursts out suddenly, like she’s actually mad about the thought. John B shrugs.

“I don’t know,” he says. “That was my lie.”

“Oh.” Sarah seems to deflate, embarrassed by her outburst. Pope knows what Harriet’s going to say even before she prompts Sarah to go next. Everything is already so fucking predictable that he wants to scream. The clock shows him he still has thirty-five minutes of this.

Sarah fiddles with the bracelets around her wrists. They clink together as she slides them back and forth. “Alright. My mom died when I was young, I have twenty-two piercings, and I signed myself up for these sessions because I want to stop feeling like a fucking wreck all the time.”

Everyone is silent after that. Sarah is the first one to actually share something more than just superficial facts, and Pope’s not sure how to feel about it. It’s off kilter. It means that he can’t just bluff his way through these sessions, spouting bullshit with JJ and Kiara and John B. Because already, Sarah’s Two Truths and a Lie have broken the pattern, made the space feel wider, but also smaller, more intimate.

“You don’t have twenty-two piercings,” Pope hears himself say. Sarah looks up sharply, nods.

JJ’s tongue flits out from between his teeth. “Maybe we just can’t see ‘em,” he says.

“Pig,” Kiara sneers, while Sarah flips him off. They exchange glances again before looking away just as quickly.

Pope doesn’t wait for Harriet to ask him to go. He’s not fucking stupid, he knows it’s his turn, so he opens his mouth before she can open hers. “I’m working towards being the first generation college student in my family, I care more about my grades than I do about peers, and…” Pope trails off, realizing two things; one, that he hadn’t meant to share either of those facts, and two, that he hadn’t prepared a lie. Lamely, he stammers, “And I… can’t fucking swim.”

JJ barks out a laugh at that. Pope finds himself wondering if JJ feels the need to react to everything and everyone, to continually re-establish his presence. If so, Pope doesn’t know why. “You can’t live in the Outer Banks and not know how to fucking swim,” JJ states.

Pope shrugs. “You got me.”

For some reason, sharing that had felt… not exactly good, per say, but satisfying. To be able to say something like that, and to know that these people either didn’t care or wouldn’t judge him if they did. It felt… freeing.

Harriet, of course, seems immensely pleased. “Thank you, all of you, for participating,” she says, and Pope is half-surprised that she doesn’t start passing out gold-star stickers to all of them. “That was great. Now, I have one more activity before our time is up.” She pulls out some loose papers and pencils and passes them around the circle. “I want you to write down your deepest, darkest fear, no matter how serious or superficial it might be, as long as it’s honest. Then, crumple it up and toss it into the middle of the circle. When everyone has added theirs, we’ll each take one and read it out loud.”

“Is there any specific reason for this?” Kiara asks sharply.

Harriet nods. “Great question. In doing so, we both acknowledge ourselves and get a sense of what others in the room might be going through. It’s intended to build trust, and to start help this room feel like a safe space.”

Pope notices JJ rolls his eyes, sees Sarah start to worry her lips between her teeth again. But when he has the paper and pencil in his hand, he finds himself at a loss.

Everyone seems to be considering their paper, putting actual thought into it. John B is the first to finish, crumpling his paper up into a tight ball before tossing it to the ground. Kiara’s is next, then Sarah’s. JJ is chewing on the pencil, staring at the paper in concentration. Pope looks back down at his, holds the pencil tighter, thinks about what he wants to write.

_Failure_.

He crumples it up, tosses it into the pile. JJ, realizing he’s the last one, quickly scribbles something down before tossing his as well.

Harriet crouches down and scrambles the papers, so it’s not clear who’s is who’s. Then, she tells them each to grab one and smooth it out, which they all do.

Pope regards his paper, already analyzing the handwriting. It’s neat, the letters clean and even, and he immediately guesses that either Kiara or Sarah wrote it.

“Would anyone like to start?” Harriet asks what Pope assumes to be one of her favorite questions.

Pope glances around. Everybody seems to be occupied with their paper. He sees Kiara’s brow furrowed as she squints at the paper, turns it this way and that. JJ’s lips move almost imperceptibly, as if he’s talking to himself.

“I’ll go,” Pope says, surprising himself once again. “People seeing the real me.”

This time, Harriet doesn’t need to prompt anyone. Sarah goes next, apparently adopting the ‘go in a circle’ pattern without being asked.

“Being alone.”

John B clears his throat. “Never figuring out who I am.”

JJ’s lips are still moving, his grip unusually tight on the paper. He squints at it, says in a rush, “Failure.” He glances around, almost like he’s looking for someone to correct him. Pope feels strange, hearing his fear coming out of someone else’s mouth. It’s not bad, but he’s not sure if he likes it.

Kiara is last. Her face is screwed up in concentration. She starts, hesitates, starts again. “I’m sorry,” she says finally. “But I can’t fucking read this.” She turns the paper out, brandishing it to the circle. Pope barely catches a glance of rather indecipherable-looking chicken scratch before JJ snatches it from her hands.

“Sorry not everyone can live up to your standards,” he snarls, before whirling on Harriet. “This whole idea is fucking dumb, anyways! Who the hell cares about each other’s fears? I’m just here to make Peterkin happy, not to pour my heart out to a bunch of fucking assholes!” He stands abruptly, ripping his paper up before storming out the door.

Harriet stands calmly, brushes imaginary dirt from her lap, and says, “I’ll be right back,” before following JJ out.

Pope glances at the clock. Fifteen minutes until five, meaning fifteen minutes until he can leave. Why didn’t Harriet just let them go early, after JJ’s temper tantrum?

The remaining four glance at each other warily. John B stretches out, long legs almost reaching Pope’s chair, and closes his eyes. “He’s dyslexic,” he says without looking at any of them.

“What?” Kiara says.

“JJ,” John B clarifies. “He’s dyslexic.”

“How do you know?” Sarah asks.

“We were in the same elementary school. Both of us were in some fucking advanced-help reading class for a year. He was able to learn some techniques, a bit about how to put the letters together while reading, but don’t think he ever got good at writing.”

That would explain why he looked to be sounding the words on his paper out, even though it was just one. Why he said it in a rush, why he exploded when Kiara said she couldn’t read his writing.

“Damn,” Kiara says. She doesn’t exactly sound remorseful, but she’s also not mocking. “Didn’t know that.”

“Nobody really knows anything about JJ unless he wants them to,” John B says. “He’s been like that forever.”

Sarah’s bracelets clang as she leans forward. “Well, what about you, John B? What secrets do you have?”

The boy doesn’t even open his eyes. Pope is struck again by how tired he looks. “I ain’t got nothing to hide,” he says. “I’m an open book.”

Sarah rolls her eyes, before turning to Pope. “How about you? Why are you here, exactly?”

Pope shrugs. “My guidance counselor apparently worries that I’ll never live a fulfilling life because I don’t have any friends.”

Harriet chooses that moment to come back in. JJ is not with her. Pope watches the door, waits for the other boy to come back, as she takes her seat again. Rubs her hands together. Starts to say some closing remarks.

“I look forward to seeing you all again in a week’s time,” Harriet says, but this doesn’t feel right, closing without JJ. It feels wrong, rude, but Pope stays silent. He’s good at that.

Kiara pushes herself to her feet, heads towards the door with a “later.” Sarah is next, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she goes. Pope knows that if he saw her outside of this room, he’d think she had everything going for her. Just a kook living a perfect kook life. But she’s here, and she was the first one to share something real about herself, and Pope won’t forget that.

John B doesn’t move. In fact, he seems to be asleep. Pope glances at him, then at Harriet, who waves him away with a small smile, settling into her chair. Pope shrugs, turns and heads out the door.

His mom isn’t there yet, so Pope goes to settle on the stonewall bordering the parking lot and the building premise. But then he spots JJ a little way away, slouched against the wall and playing idly with a lighter.

Pope ambles over to him, stopping a few feet away. JJ doesn’t look up, doesn’t glance in his direction. “I’m not interested in whatever fucking loser thing you have to say,” he says roughly. “I’m not exactly here to make friends.”

Pope nods. “I feel that.” Actually, the guidance counselor sent him with the direct intention of helping him make friends. Not that JJ needs to know that. “I’m just curious why the sheriff dropped you off.”

JJ looks up at that, probably having expected Pope to say something else. Then he laughs. “Why? You scared of me?” He says, tone joking, but then his face falls, and he looks back down at the lighter. Sighs. “Peterkin can’t get enough of me,” he says, and Pope’s not really sure that’s an answer, but it seems like it’s all JJ’s going to say.

They stand in silence for a bit, before someone else comes down the steps. It’s John B, hair mussed and one shoe untied. He’s got his bike, but spots JJ and Pope and walks it over to them.

“Hey,” he says. “That was a load of bullshit, wasn’t it?” His eyes look bright, cheeks flushed, and he’s looking everywhere except at JJ and Pope. Like he’s embarrassed about something.

Pope wants to agree but is caught thinking about how it felt to write _failure_ on a piece of paper, to crumple it up and then hear it come from JJ’s mouth. But JJ laughs and slaps John B on the back, and Pope is half surprised that John B doesn’t crumble under the touch, but he laughs and nods in agreement all the same. Because that’s how you relate to people, right? By agreeing with them? Suck it, school guidance counselor.

“Well, I’m going to head out,” John B says, throwing one leg over his bike. For some reason, Pope is compelled to say something.

“You surf?” He asks. John B nods. “Same.”

“Cool,” John B says. “We should hit it together sometime.”

“For sure,” Pope says. He feels tingly, detached. Like someone else is in his body, making these plans, saying these words. This is so not him.

JJ stuffs his lighter in his pocket. Pope notices the sheriff’s car pulling up. “Hey, count me in too, alright?” He says, before stepping away from the wall and saluting the other two. Peterkin gives John B and Pope a long look while JJ swings himself into her car. They exchange brief words before the car is pulling away.

“Well, see ya,” John B says, pushing off. Pope waves.

“Until next week,” he calls out at John B’s retreating back. Wonders if they’ll see each other at school before then. If either of them will acknowledge the other. John B responds by lifting a fist into the air.

When Pope’s mom finally arrives, they don’t talk. She doesn’t ask how things went and he doesn’t offer any insight. When they get home, he goes straight to his room, picks up one of his SAT prep books.

But for some reason, he finds he can’t focus on the words. In his head, a replay of the fears being spoken out loud loops continuously. _People seeing the real me. Being alone. Never figuring out who I am. Failure._

He can’t help but wonder what JJ’s was.


	2. john b

John B is tired.

He’s been tired for as long as he can remember. Exhaustion permeates his bones, is etched into the lines in his skin. It’s the foundation of his being.

At least he has a routine. That normally helps. He goes to school because it’s easier than not going, because he doesn’t want to deal with concerned teachers trying to reach out and he wants to avoid prodding questions, drawing more attention than necessary. So, he goes to class, zones out in the back row, and goes home. When he’s not at school, and has the energy to actually leave the house, he goes surfing, or fishing, or works on the boat that his dad left him. It’s not running now, but he hopes to get it there by the time summer rolls around.

Uncle T leaves a message on the home phone, sometimes. John B’s cell got cut off when the payments stop, so the landline is the only connection he has to his legal guardian. John B’s not exactly sure where he is at this point; last he heard, it was some casino in Florida, but Uncle T had been talking about the possibility of work on a fishing boat down in the Bahamas, so he could be anywhere. The only thing John B knows, cares about, is that Uncle T, the closest link he has to his dad, isn’t _here_.

So, it’s a pretty lonely existence. At least he does yardwork for his older neighbor, Orla, mainly cleaning up after storms and trimming the grass when it gets too out of hand. It’s nice, easy enough, and Orla normally makes some random assortment of food and pawns it off on him under the guise of _I could never eat all of this myself_ and _you’re a growing boy, you need nutrients!_

It’s no secret on the Outer Banks that his dad has been missing for the past nine months. Had been officially declared dead five months ago. And it doesn’t take a genius to recognize that there’s no ‘Uncle T’ coming and going from the house, despite John B being a minor.

But things like that are often overlooked, especially on this side of the island. So, there’s no one coming to check up on him, to make sure he’s going to bed and eating three square meals and brushing his teeth and all that.

And in the past few months, since his dad disappeared, John B simply… hasn’t been sleeping. Hasn’t been doing anything, really. He’ll lay in bed all night, staring at the ceiling and begging for at least an hour of relief. And when the sun starts to rise, he accepts defeat and pulls himself out of bed, goes to school, and tries to sleep there.

Those are good days.

On bad days, he’ll watch the sun rise and then the next thing he knows it’ll be setting, and he won’t have moved. And then he’ll lay in bed and repeat the cycle, watch it rise again. Those days are blurry, don’t feel real. He thinks he gets some rest during them, but he’s not sure. Nothing is clear.

If his dad was here, he’d force John B out of bed, maybe take him out on the water and they’d talk and Big John would tell him about treasure hunts and John B’s shoulders would get burned but he wouldn’t care. If Uncle T was here, he’d probably rip the covers off him and poke and prod John B until he was out of bed, then take him down to the marina where he’d lose a few dollars at an impromptu poker game. He’d probably ask John B if he has any cash on him, and John B would feel obligated to pass over whatever he had on him, but it would be alright because Uncle T would probably treat him to a burger later that day.

But neither of them are here, so John B stays in bed until his muscles ache from lack of use and his skin feels tender and the mattress is too soft and the covers irritate his skin.

Seeing JJ again had been weird. He’d recognized Pope from school as well, and Kiara from middle school, before she’d gone on to Kook academy, but JJ was the most familiar face. John B knew a bit about him, probably more than others, because of their tentative friendship back in elementary school. But they’d gone their separate ways in middle school, and by the time high school rolled around JJ never really showed up for class and honestly, John B probably wouldn’t have noticed if he did.

The whole group therapy had been weird. Because that’s another thing; after his dad disappeared, John B was signed up for weekly mandatory check-in sessions with the school guidance counselor, Miss Rhein. They were honestly not bad; sometimes Miss Rhein would ask him questions and John B would make up answers and she’d smile kind of sadly but nod all the same, but mostly she’d just let him lie down on the sofa she has in her office and write him a note excusing him from whatever class he was missing. And it was Miss Rhein who signed him up for the therapy, offered him the ultimatum of either that or she’d start taking their sessions more seriously. Which would mean reporting any indication that John B was in an unfit home environment. Which anyone with two eyes and a brain could likely figure out.

So, John B went to therapy.

And it hadn’t been… bad, per se. It was pretty much exactly what he’d been expecting. A misfit group of fellow high schoolers, all troubled in their own way, forced together with the notion that if you pack enough trauma into one room, maybe it’ll cancel itself out.

But Harriet was chill. Didn’t freak out at John B when he fell asleep, slept through the ending and made her stay late. Didn’t accept his profuse apologies for doing so, told him it’s no big deal, she was going to meditate after, anyways.

So, yeah, maybe he’s looking forward to the next session a little bit. Even though he has to bike there from school and it’s about two and a half miles, and the sun is beating down and his body feels sluggish and he can’t remember the last thing he ate. But the room that they sit in is air conditioned, a luxury that not even the school can afford, and it’s dark and while the chairs may not be exactly comfortable, it beats lying in bed in an empty house staring at the ceiling and knowing sleep will not come.

Today, JJ is here on time, and Kiara is wearing an oversized hoody that says **I am unwell** and John B can’t help but think _same_ as he takes his seat. Pope is tapping his foot and already glancing at the clock and Sarah is alternating between looking at her phone, glaring, putting it away, pulling it back out when it buzzes again, glaring some more. John B watches as she finally holds down the power button, shutting it off.

Harriet has her gentle smile on as she welcomes them back, and already John B is lulled by her voice. His brain has been feeling more mushy than usual and it’s hard to focus on things, to hone in on the words Harriet is saying, but he tries because he has nothing better to do and he really wants Miss Rhein to keep letting him sleep in her office.

There’s a ringing in his ears, and for a moment everything sounds like its underwater. John B stares at the ceiling and breathes evenly, in an out, but by the time it subsides he realizes Harriet has stopped talking and now they seem to be going around in a circle, answering some sort of question.

“Studying, probably,” Pope is saying. “Or helping my dad deliver orders.” Right. Pope’s dad has a business of supplying hard-to-get groceries and other goods to people on the island.

Kiara shrugs, tugging at the strings of her hoodie. Her knees are pulled inside it, making her look tiny, fragile. Vulnerable. “Pass.”

JJ is next. “Surfing, for sure. Or bothering Peterkin.” He talks about the sheriff as if they are familiar, likes its normal. John B isn’t sure why JJ is dropped off and picked up by her, if it’s part of a program he’s been forced into or what, but he doesn’t ask.

Sarah’s foot bounces, the flip flop banging off the sole of her heel repeatedly. “I’d be with friends,” she says. “Or with my sister.”

It’s his turn, and John B still doesn’t know what question he’s supposed to be answering. After a moment, Harriet seems to sense this, and says, “How about you, John B? Where would you be, what would you be doing at this moment if you didn’t come to this session today?”

Lying in bed. Staring at the ceiling. Wondering what it’s like to not be alone constantly. Questioning every interaction, every conversation that he’d had with his dad leading up to his disappearance, trying desperately to look for a clue, to figure out whether he intended to leave for good.

Sometimes, at his lowest, John B imagines that Big John just got sick of it. Sick of raising a kid by himself, sick of putting in all the work and getting so little reward. If John B had gotten better grades, tried harder in school and sports and everything his dad seemed to like, maybe he would still be here.

Everyone’s staring, waiting for an answer. Gazing at the ceiling, because it’s easier than meeting any of their eyes, John B says, “I’d be working on the boat. Trying to get it fixed up for summer.”

“That’s great,” Harriet says, instantly transitioning to a passionate rant about how hobbies are important and having a goal to work towards is vital to human survival or something, like she and John B had planned the response so that she could use it as a learning moment. John B lets himself sink back into the lull he’d been in earlier.

He’s not sure why, but he’s comfortable here. He realized it during the first session, when he’d actually managed to fall asleep. Those thirty minutes of uninterrupted bliss were so surprising that it wasn’t until he’d made it back to his empty house that he realized that somehow, just the presence of someone else made it possible for him to doze off.

Wonderful realization. He had spent the next three nights thinking about the irony of it and didn’t truly sleep again until his Wednesday meeting with Miss Rhein.

It’s not until the end of the session, when Harriet does a little closing speech and offers a moment of meditation to anyone who wants to stay, does he realize that JJ has been openly staring at him.

“Dude,” JJ leans over. “You alright?”

“What?” John B actually can’t imagine why he’d be asking this.

“You didn’t talk, like, once this whole session.”

Was that true? John B is pretty sure he mentioned the boat, fixing it up for the summer. But it’s true, he didn’t say anything after that. Didn’t hear anything anyone else said, either. He feels like this should scare him, but can’t find it in himself to care.

So he just shrugs, like he always does. “Tired,” he explains, like he always does.

But JJ doesn’t just nod and accept it, like everyone who bothers to ask John B always does when he gives his response. He stands, offers John B his hand. Pulls him to his feet. Leads him out of the room, out the door, mouth moving a mile a minute, but all John B can focus on is JJ’s hand in his. Sturdy, solid, real.

Then JJ drops his hand and John B snaps out of it. Starts to hear what JJ’s saying, which honestly sounds like a whole bunch of nothing. Right now, he’s talking about surfing, and the best sorts of waves, the prime conditions, the superior time of day to catch the perfect curl.

“Storm swells,” John B hears himself say, interrupting JJ mid-sentence.

“What?” JJ asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“Best surf is right before a storm,” John B says. JJ regards him for a moment, before grinning. They’re outside now, the sun lower in the sky, temperature dropping just a bit, shadows growing longer. John B’s bike is right where he left it. The sheriff’s car is idling a bit further down. JJ looks at it, face unreadable, before turning back to John B.

“You need a ride?”

John B shakes his head. Doesn’t need anyone coming to his house, especially not the sheriff. JJ looks dubious for a moment, then shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He swings himself into the passenger seat of the cop car effortlessly, like he belongs there.

John B watches them drive off before turning to his bike. His body feels fuzzy, disconnected, but he swings himself on anyways, matches his foot up to the pedals and pushes off, trusting his muscles to remember what to do. While it may be cooler than it had been when he’d biked here, sweat still drips down his back, runs into his eyes. The four mile ride home sounds daunting, and he finds himself day dreaming about a cold shower – has to be cold, because the hot water got shut off a few months ago – and a good stare-at-the-ceiling-and-beg-for-sleep session.

He’s so out of it that he almost doesn’t notice the car that sidles up next to him. But then his handlebars dip violently to the right, and adrenaline shoots through him as he panics and swerves in the opposite direction. His front tire catches on something and he gets catapulted off, landing hard on his hands and knees before rolling onto his back.

“Jesus!” A voice yells. Brakes screech. A door opens, then slams, and suddenly Sarah-from-therapy is leaning over him, looking all sorts of concerned. Her hair is long and loose and honestly a bit of a nuisance as it brushes over his face, and he squints up at her, trying to process what happened. “John B! Are you alright?”

He sits up. Tries to, but she’s still in his way. Realizing it, she jerks back suddenly, squatting on her heels to give him space as he pushes himself off the ground.

“Talk to me,” she’s saying. “Say something. Like, what’s your name? Um, what year is it? Who’s the president?”

“I’m not concussed,” he says.

“You’re not? So what are you, drunk? You’ve been swerving all over the place like your goddam eyes were closed. When you took a dive, I thought you’d passed out!” Her voice is loud, slightly panicked, and she’s looking everywhere except in John B’s eyes, bracelets clanking as she hovers her hands over his knees, his chest, like she could heal him with thought alone.

“No.” He’s not sure whether to be amused or insulted. Decides to feel neither. Groaning, he stands up. Sarah remains crouched, looking up at him incredulously.

“Sorry about that,” he says, and moves to get his bike.

Sarah scrambles to her feet. “There’s no way in hell I’m letting you bike off like this! You’ll end up dead in a ditch somewhere. I’ll be frank with you, John B, you look like hell. How are you even standing?”

He thinks she’s being a little dramatic. Sure, it’s been a few days since he’d slept, and yeah, maybe he could’ve showered yesterday instead of just jumping in the marsh. And okay, maybe he could wash his clothes a little more often. And brush his hair. And – point taken.

He doesn’t see a situation where she lets him go. So he picks up his bike, tosses it in her trunk, and climbs into the passenger seat.

Immediately, he feels wrong. The car is too nice, the leather seats unmarked beneath him. It still has that new-car smell, starting to show that new-car mess, with things like hair elastics and spare sunglasses and water bottles left to roll around. Sarah looks relieved that he didn’t put up too much of a fight and plugs her phone into the charger. John B bets that she has a charging cord for the car alone.

Sarah busies herself making it look like they’re about to take off, before she admits, “I don’t know where you live.”

Of course not. He hasn’t had anyone over in months, isn’t about to start now. He’ll have her drop him off at Orla’s house anyways, and he’ll bike the short rest of the way home.

And another thing about Sarah, he thinks as he gives her the general directions. It’s clear that she’s well-off. From a good family, probably has a massive house with a pool and a water-front view that allows for the best sunset pictures. Probably has one of those fridges that is specific for bottled water, rather than just drinking it from the tap.

Probably has a supportive father. Her mother is dead, she said so herself, but maybe she has one of those ‘cool’ stepmoms, the one who tries to bond with her step-kids and succeeds. Stupidly perfect siblings. A weirdly high allowance. A boyfriend who’s head over heels in love with her.

But then, of course, that begs the question. The question he’s sure they’re all asking themselves, all secretly wanting to find out. What’s she doing in therapy?

Sarah pulls to a stop in front of Orla’s house. The trip is much quicker in a car with the air conditioning blasting and the windows down, rather than slogging through the humidity on his bike. She looks disappointed in him, though, like she can sense that this isn’t actually his house somehow, but she doesn’t say anything, and he’s grateful.

“Well,” she says, “I guess I’ll see you next week.”

He nods. Looks at her, really looks. She’s pretty, no question about it. Straight hair like the color of caramel, full lips, already has that sun-kissed tan that everyone living in the Outer Banks has. Her eyes are darting all around his face, unable to settle anywhere, and he wonders what it would be like to kiss her. That’s definitely not a good idea, because it would certainly make the therapy sessions a bit more awkward, but he’s sixteen and hasn’t really given it a thought since his dad disappeared. But thinking about taking her face into his hands and pressing his lips to hers doesn’t entice him like it once would. Doesn’t do anything. Like his emotions have been steamrolled, flattened.

“Thanks for the ride,” he says, and means it.

“Thanks for accepting it,” Sarah says, and it sounds like she means it, too. John B quirks a smile at her, and it feels more genuine than he’s felt in a long time.

After Sarah drives off, Orla comes out. Ushers him to the porch, forces him to sit down while she grabs him a glass of lemonade and makes him one of her famous chicken salad sandwiches. She puts grapes in it, which he’s learned to love. She sits with him and talks and doesn’t say anything when he wipes at his eyes. Just puts her hand on his when he puts it back on the table, old and wrinkled and kind, and keeps talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy monday ! thank you to everyone who read/commented/left a kudo... you are all amazing !! i love hearing your thoughts/reactions to this, so thank you all for sharing:')
> 
> also, the amount of restraint I used to not have sarah say something like "did you just yeet over your handle bars john b?"... ridiculous


	3. sarah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for discussions of self harm + child abuse

Sarah knows what people think about her.

She’s bubbly, boozy, fun. Smart, capable, perceptive.

She’s her father’s daughter, as much as she hates the fucking thought. And she knows that her fellow therapy goers think she’s a spoiled rich girl who lives off of daddy’s money and probably is in therapy because he wouldn’t buy her a pony or some bullshit like that.

Well, she knows that Kiara probably doesn’t think that of her. She knows more details about Sarah’s life than Sarah is comfortable with, and when Sarah walked into the first session and laid eyes on Kiara sitting there, it was actually almost the breaking point when deciding if she wanted to keep going to the therapy sessions.

Because Kiara knows about Sarah’s issue with shoplifting. And a little bit about her older brother. And, most worryingly, she knows about the thin scars on her wrist, the ones Sarah keeps hidden by an assortment of bracelets.

Sarah is nothing if not rational. She takes every emotion that goes through her, isolates it, and does her best to determine what it is, why she feels that way, what caused it. Like when her body feels charged with anxiety, every piece of her trying to move in a different direction, satisfy itself in a different way, she’ll go to her room, sit on her bed, stare at her open journal that she’d bought thinking it would help to write things down but has yet to put even a single word in it.

Or when Rafe stumbles into her room, shaking with a need for his next fix, tearing through her drawers in an attempt to find cash or something to pawn. She had come home from school one day to find her room had been ransacked, that the pearl necklace her mother had left her was gone. Sarah had screamed at Rafe until her throat was sore, but, like usual, he’d been too high to care.

Or, of course, the time when she actually confided in her father, told him she’s stressed out, that she thinks there’s something wrong with her. Her hands had been shaking and she hadn’t been able to look him in the eye when she’d told him about how she feels lost in herself, swamped behind so many people’s expectations and assumptions that she’s not even sure who she is. Because that’s what all the self-help books had said, all the posters in the guidance office; to talk to a trusted adult. So she did. And when her father had wrapped her into a hug, pressed a hand to the back of her head, she’d closed her eyes, finally feeling like things might get better. And then he had whispered, “Sarah, you’re delusional. Go lie down.”

At first, the shoplifting helped. It didn’t matter how valuable or not the object was, it was the rush that came with the victory of it. Concealing the object, whether it be Chapstick, toothpaste, a pair of earrings, gave her a rush of adrenaline that she hadn’t thought possible. Broke through the haze. Made her smile feel genuine again.

And the times when that didn’t work, well, her wrists now have permanent record of that. And that’s when she’d told herself she needed therapy. After, of course, ridiculing herself because _how cliché_ , _the perfect daughter who can’t handle the stress takes a razor to her wrists in a half-assed attempt to feel something_. The voice saying these things sounds a bit like Rose, her stepmother. And a bit like herself.

But she’s told herself she needed therapy because it had felt too good, making herself look on the outside like she felt on the inside. But warring with that pleasure of knowing she was in control of this, was the voice, telling her she’s pathetic, doesn’t deserve help because how could anyone possibly look at her, look at her life and how she’s dealing and not just feel _embarrassed._

Sometimes, Sarah thinks she’s too perceptive. To critical. She used to see it as a strength, being able to reality check herself. But there’s a chance she’s been taking it too far, judging herself too strongly. And the awful thing is that while she understands this, can think about it and recognize it and rationalize with it, she can’t _stop it_.

And at the point when you can no longer help yourself, you must get help. At least, that’s what Sarah tells herself.

The therapy sessions… do help, Sarah supposes. Her fellow session-goers make it interesting, though she can’t help but wonder why they’re there, what their story is. It hasn’t exactly been a big old share fest, where they spill their lives to each other like middle schoolers gossiping, but Sarah hadn’t really been expecting that, either. She knows that it takes time to build trust, that these sessions are more for establishing social support than anything else, for showing them that isolation is dangerous and that they’re not alone.

But still, even as she tells herself this, as she analyzes each activity Harriet has them do for its underlying purpose, she struggles. Forces herself to be open, cringing once the words are out there, hating herself for cringing. But it’s like she’s trying to beat down walls from the inside, barriers that _she’d_ constructed and elaborated on and overlapped with so much that she’s not even really sure who she is.

Even so, she looks forward to the third meeting. She’s been itchy, restless all day. Wants to head to the nearest convenience store, pick up a pack of gum. Wants to get her fingers on a razor, slice a neat little line into her skin, watch the blood well up and feel the tension release.

But she doesn’t do that. Sits on her hands for most of the day. Chews her lip without mercy. By the time she’s sitting her regular seat – because they haven’t switched seats since the first session – she’s practically vibrating with agitation.

John B catches her eye from where he’s sitting up for once, rather than slouched over and staring at the ceiling, and quirks his lips upwards in a way that might be a smile. She nods in return, bouncing her leg like mad. Pope looks uncomfortable and mildly irritated, though Sarah’s starting to think that might just be his default look. JJ hasn’t arrived yet, which isn’t exactly a surprise. And Kiara –

No. Kie. She’d dressed in long flowy pants, a tight crop top, and Sarah catches herself looking at the other girl’s tanned, smooth stomach. She has a belly button piercing, which is new, but Sarah forces herself to look away before anyone can accuse her of staring, feeling her cheeks start to flush.

Harriet is wearing her usual get-up of casual blouse and dull khaki capris and seems to be calmly meditating while they wait for their last member to arrive. Sarah glances at the clock, gut tightening when she realizes they’re already two minutes past the start time, and _god_ does she need it to start _now_ because she _needs help, goddammit, needs to let it out_ –

The door swings open with its usual gusto whenever JJ is entering, and Sarah can’t help but feel relieved. She looks over, wants to say something, in fact has her mouth open to do so, but –

JJ’s eye is swollen shut. A myriad of colors paints his left cheekbone, spreading almost to the bridge of his nose, and higher, encompassing his eye. It looks terrible, painful. Sarah, as do Pope and Kie and John B, stare as JJ stalks over to his seat, throws himself into it.

Already, Sarah can feel something is off. The mood, it’s darker. Charged. Like the sky before a thunderstorm. JJ is practically radiating tension, his posture stiff and forced. His good eye glitters with something ugly.

If Harriet can sense it, she doesn’t say anything, just welcomes JJ and starts the session like usual.

“What was one good thing that happened to you today,” she asks in her level voice. Sarah finds herself clinging to the words, steady and even.

Surprisingly, Kie speaks up first. “I felt good this morning,” she says.

“How exactly?” Harriet asks. Instead of shutting her down, Kie continues.

“Like, for the past few weeks, when I wake up, I’d just think… do I really have to do this again. It all felt so pointless and overwhelming at the same time. Even figuring out what to wear seemed impossible, pointless. But today… I don’t know. It was different. I just felt… lighter. Fresh.”

By the end of it, Sarah was staring openly at Kie, eyes scanning the other girl. She seemed like... how she’d been last year, before their falling out, if you could even call it that. Open, bubbly, level headed. Like she’d been when she was Sarah’s best friend.

Sarah feels a pang in her gut, a cold feeling pooling low in her stomach as she thinks about last year. About how she’d basically abandoned Kie, after the two of them being inseparable for months. The guilt tastes bitter in her mouth, because she’d _seen_ Kie changing, noticed the signs, but hadn’t done anything. And when Kie’d started asking questions that were a little too personal, a little too close to home, Sarah had panicked. Cut her off.

Kie glances over at Sarah, who quickly averts her eyes, scanning around the rest of the room. She isn’t the only who’s impressed by Kie’s level of opening up. Harriet looks pleased, eyes crinkling as she smiles. Pope is looking at her like he’s just seeing her clearly now. John B’s is gazing intently as well, tired eyes looking sharper than usual. Only JJ is the one who remains unmoved, arms still crossed stiffly, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Anyone else? Pope, would you like to share something?”

Pope looks annoyed for a second, which he always does when Harriet addresses him, but smoothes his features out almost immediately. “I… had a good conversation today. With my physics teacher. It turns out he minored in forensic studies at university, which is what I’m interested in, and so we talked about that for a bit.”

John B is prompted to go next, but he’s seemed to have lost whatever energy he had when Kie had spoken. “I got out of bed,” he says, not offering any other explanation. Harriet still nods sagely, as if it’s a major accomplishment. Maybe, for him, it is, Sarah reminds herself.

Sarah’s next, because it’s clear JJ isn’t about to leap out of his seat and start lamenting on all the great things that happened to him today, if any. She’s jittery, but she’s been thinking about what she wanted to say since Harriet asked the question.

“I didn’t cut today,” she says. There. It’s out there. Let them react. “Or steal anything. I wanted to; I really did. But I didn’t.”

Kie glances at her, quick, sparingly. Pope’s eyes are on her wrists, covered, as always by her bracelets. John B doesn’t react visibly, just leans back, eyes going to the ceiling. JJ, however, starts a slow, mocking clap.

“Oh, that’s just wonderful,” he says, and Sarah’s taken aback by the amount of venom in his voice. “Really, all of you are just pictures of perfect health.” He gives Sarah a thumbs up, a mocking salute. “Keep on keeping on, princess!” Then, he turns to Harriet. His smile is heartbreaking. “You want to know what great thing happened to me today? I got a visit from dear old dad. You know, Harriet, the one who beat me so bad that the goddam sheriff had to take me in!” He laughs loudly, humorlessly. “And, yes, thank you for not asking, this _is_ from him!” He jabs a finger at his eye, at the bruise. “Really looks good, huh? I kinda wish I could’ve asked to do the other side of my face, too, cause I really think he missed an opportunity for some nice symmetry!”

JJ’s voice is loud, abrasive, but also desperate. Sarah feels her own eyes growing moist, sees Kie staring in stunned, saddened horror to her right. 

JJ’s done, looking around at all of them, face flushed and breathing heavily. He looks like he’s about to bolt, but for some reason, he stays. The room feels tense, like everyone’s holding their breath.

But then, someone exhales. Pope. He leans over, hand hovering before he tentatively rests it on JJ’s knee. JJ stares at it, then looks up at him.

“Hey man,” Pope says. “Asymmetry is in these days.”

For a moment, Sarah is _so sure_ that Pope is about to get punched in the face. But, by some miracle, JJ _laughs_. It’s harsh and a little broken, almost resembling a sob, but he’s smiling and shaking his head and saying, “that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” and he doesn’t seem angry.

Harriet steps in. Sarah’s honestly surprised that she didn’t beforehand. Her voice is strong, warm, firm, and though she’s addressing JJ, her words feel like their meant for all of them.

She talks about strength, how brave JJ is for sharing, for recognizing that it is cruel, what his father did to him, how it was wrong. How he is not defined by his past, how he is out of that situation now.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” she says. “You don’t deserve it, and it’s not your fault. You are not to blame for your father’s actions, nor are you defined by them. You’re in a safe, supportive space here. If you want to talk more, we are here to listen. We are here for you.”

JJ nods, throat bobbing as he swallows. His crossed arms have moved more into a position where he is holding himself, hands gripping opposite elbows. He doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes as he starts speaking. “He’s not supposed to be able to see me. Like, there’s a court-ordered mandatory distance, like a restraining order and everything. He’s not supposed to be within five hundred feet of me. But today…” JJ trails off, voice growing rough. “He came to the house. He must’ve been watching, because he knew Peterkin wasn’t there. Knew I was alone. And when the doorbell rang, I didn’t even think…”

Harriet nods. Tells JJ to take a breath, then another, and another. Looks around at all of them. “I want you all to close your eyes,” she says. “Don’t think about the person next to you, don’t think about what you’re doing after this. Just focus on the moment, on my voice, on yourself.”

Sarah closes her eyes. Thinks about the silver scars on her wrist. The purpling bruise on JJ’s face. Harriet continues. “Repeat after me. I am worthy of love, happiness and fulfillment.”

Sarah opens her mouth. The words are there, at the tip of her tongue. She hears Kie speaking them to her right, the lower baritone of Pope on her left. Quietly, she whispers it.

“I let go of the past, surrender concerns about the future, and openly receive the experience of the present moment.”

Sarah’s voice is stronger this time. She licks her lips nervously.

“I have the courage and tenacity to overcome any challenge I face.”

Hearing the voices of the others, of Kie and Pope and JJ and John B in time with her own, is a strange experience. Her chest feels tight.

“I forgive myself, and I love and accept myself just the way I am.”

“I forgive myself –” Sarah’s voice catches, unable to vocalize the rest. Because how can she love and accept herself when she’s not even really sure who she is?

After a long moment, Harriet tells them to open their eyes. Sarah does, and is surprised to realize she’s blinking past tears. She feels drained. The tension that she had been vibrating with in the beginning of the session is gone, and she feels limp, raw, in its absence. 

“Tomorrow is a new day,” Harriet says, looking at each and every one of them. “Be kind to yourself.”

Sarah can only nod. Today’s meeting had been tough, and she honestly wants nothing more than to go home and crawl into bed. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t look at anyone as she gets up to leave. Harriet has approached JJ, taken Pope’s seat and is leaned over, speaking to him. Pope and John B are standing just outside the door, looking like they’re waiting for JJ.

“Sarah.” Kie catches up with her in the long hallway, falls short just a few steps away, and Sarah feels a pang, missing having the other girl at her side. Missing when their friendship had been easy, natural. “How are you?”

Sarah doesn’t know how to answer that question. Wants to smile. Wipes at her face. “Oh, just dandy. You know how it goes, life of a princess and all that.” Though she knows JJ only lashed out because he was hurt, she can’t help but use his words, feel their sting.

Kie scoffs, then stops. They’ve just stepped outside, and the sky is golden. _Kie_ is golden, bathed in the late afternoon sun. She grabs Sarah’s hand, sudden, quick. Holds it like she’s delicate, like she is a butterfly and needs to be treated lightly. “I’m proud of you,” she says. Squeezes her hand. Sarah stares. “For not cutting. For not stealing. That’s huge.”

Kie’s eyes are so earnest, her face so open and caring, and Sarah can’t help the sudden sob that bubbles out of her. Mortified, she claps a hand over her mouth, the one that Kie isn’t holding, as if she could force the choked cries back down her throat.

“Thanks,” Sarah says, wetly, lamely, from behind her palm. Kie is still staring at her, so close, and it feels like there’s so much more Sarah needs to say. “Kie, I’m so, so sorry.”

Kie shakes her head. Her smile is gone, face shuttered, but she’s still looking at Sarah, still holding her hand, so that’s something.

“Sarah,” she says, and Sarah hates how much she loves hearing Kie’s voice. Hates how much she’s missed it. “I’m… it’s okay.” It’s not forgiveness, but it’s a step closer to it than Sarah thinks she deserves.

That does it. Sarah sobs, loud and ugly, and Kie wraps her arms around her and they’re hugging and it feels _so good_ but Sarah still hates herself for it because she doesn’t deserve this, she hasn’t done anything to deserve being in Kie’s arms again. Hasn’t even explained herself, not that she has any excuses, but because Kie at least deserves to know, to understand just a little bit as to why Sarah did what she did.

Because Sarah is a master of smoke and mirrors. People think they see the real her, but it’s only an illusion, a part of themselves that she takes in and reflects back. Allows them see what she thinks they want to see. And she’s so good at it, at being somebody else, that sometimes, she fools herself. Which is why she turned Kie away; she had been getting too close. Had been showing Sarah a side of herself that she wasn’t ready to see.

Because, to put it plain and simple, Sarah was in love with Kie. And she’s pretty sure that she still is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pulled the affirmations in this chapter from here: https://www.goodtherapy.org/blog/how-15-positive-affirmations-can-change-your-life-0923157
> 
> thank you to everyone who has read/commented/left a kudo ! i love hearing what you all think about this, so thank you:)
> 
> next chapter will contain some actual out-of-therapy bonding/interactions... I'm struggling with how to pace this because I don't want their relationships to feel too sudden or under-developed... so either chapters will get longer or I may end up with more than six. will have to play it by ear.
> 
> thank you for reading!!


	4. kiara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please excuse any mistakes and feel free to point em out...

From an early age, Kiara knew she was difficult.

Her hair, for one thing. Difficult for her mother to manage. It took her a long time to understand how to treat hair that was naturally curly, and until she did, Kiara had spent the majority of her childhood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection as her mother combed through her damp hair, yanking harshly through snarls and knots and braiding it tightly afterwards. It wasn’t until middle school, when Kiara started doing her own research, that she figured out the proper way to take care of her curls and started wearing it naturally again.

Her attitude, for another. Her parents wanted her to be calm, lady-like. Dress in nice outfits and play with dolls and giggle about boys. They didn’t understand her desire to skateboard, her pride in showing off bloody knees and bruised elbows. Her interest in amphibians, the collection of snakes and frogs that she’d kept one summer in a vivarium in her room. Her extreme and sometimes violently vocal distaste for meat.

“Don’t be difficult,” her mother used to say when she was younger, when Kiara would refuse to wear the dresses that she had picked out for required dinner parties or cocktail hours.

“Don’t be difficult,” her father told her when she tried to persuade him to make the Wreck into a fully vegetarian menu, despite the fact that most of their popular items were seafood oriented.

So, for a while, Kiara learned not to be difficult. She put on her dresses and strappy sandals and flower crowns when the occasion arose, she smiled when supposed to and played nice with her parent’s friend’s kids and snuck sips of wine and whiskey at club events and learned to make small talk, to not let herself get carried away when talking about her opinions on the agricultural industry or fossil fuel or the state of the union, because boy could she talk someone’s ear off about that –

She digresses.

_Not being difficult_ wasn’t too hard, not at first. She transferred schools at her parent’s request with little complaint. She talked about boys with her mom, because she figured that’s all her mom wanted to hear about, even though she _really_ wanted to talk about boys and girls and everyone in between. She helped out at the Wreck with her dad, becoming a skilled sous-chef. She even would keep an eye on the meat when asked, though she still refused to have anything to do with the lobsters (because back when she was difficult she tried to free them and _that_ had ended poorly for all parties involved).

_Not being difficult_ only started to be difficult when the bad days started coming. When she would wake up and feel nothing, have no desire to get up and get dressed and go to school and have the same stupid conversations with people over and over again, and then go to whatever after-school club was happening that day and talk about _more_ of the same things, and then go straight to the Wreck to help out until closing.

At first, Kiara was able to play those days off. It would be only once or twice a week, and if she was lucky, she’d be feeling normal again by sunset. She could just tell her friends she was tired, tell her mom and dad she was stressed with schoolwork.

And on the good days, she was happy. As happy as one can be while doing everything with the intention of making life less difficult for those around you. Every move was calculated, thought through, and typically, Kiara would make decisions by asking herself, _what would my parents say_? _Is this ‘being difficult’_?

The only times she felt she didn’t have to be like that, didn’t have to watch and monitor her every move, was when she was with Sarah Cameron.

They’d become friends in Calc 1, the only two freshmen in a class of sophomores, advanced enough to skip Precalculus. Sarah had been the girl with eight different colored pens to color-code her notes, and she’d smiled at Kiara when she sat down next to her. Called her _Kie._

From then on, she’d been Kie at school. Kiara at home. And school suddenly got just a bit more bearable, with Sarah at her side.

Kie considered Sarah as her best friend. The one person she was interested in hanging out with after school. The one person she was interested in, _period_.

Unfortunately, her interest made things come to light, things that Sarah apparently didn’t want anyone to know. Like her tendency to shoplift. Like the true instability of her older brother, Rafe. Like the fact that the bracelets that always adorn her wrists are there to shield the little white lines she’d put there.

And, because Kiara cared, she’d forgotten herself. Forgotten her pact to _not be difficult_ , because everything would’ve stayed the same if she’d just kept her mouth closed, if she just continued the façade that Sarah was working so hard to project. But instead, she _had_ to go and bring up her concerns, and _that_ had ended with Sarah pulling a complete one-eighty and ignoring Kie, avoiding her at all costs.

The thing was, Kie couldn’t even blame Sarah. All she could think about was how she’d broken her number one rule; don’t be difficult, and how that’d resulted in losing the one person she actually, genuinely gave a shit about. So no, she didn’t blame Sarah. It had been _her fault_ , she’d forgotten herself. Forgotten that the only point of existing was to make other’s lives easier. And if their lives were easier without her in it, then she’d have to respect that decision.

After that, the bad days started coming more and more frequently. And Kiara stopped trying, stopped caring. As long as she didn’t bother anyone else, she figured she could do whatever she wanted.

So, she faded. Still did her schoolwork, helped out with her parents, talked lightly with whoever decided to start a conversation with her, but other than that, she didn’t _do_ anything. Because the key to not being difficult, she’d discovered, was to avoid any situation that could call for a choice, a decision between being herself or being accommodating, being convenient for others.

Still, she must’ve failed in that, somehow. Because her mother had noticed _something_ , and suggested Kiara try this group therapy. And, because Kiara didn’t want to be difficult, she’d agreed.

At first, she’d been jumpy. On edge. Unwilling to share, _especially_ because the universe seemed to be testing her, by throwing her into the same intimate closed-group therapy sessions as Sarah Cameron.

The other boys were fine, if a bit aggravating; Pope, with his holier-than-thou act, John B with his ‘tired is my personality’ schtick, JJ with his ‘I don’t want to be here more than you don’t want to be here’ routine. At the first session, Kie had thought to herself, _this is never going to work_.

And then, Sarah had shared something true, something real. And that had shocked Kie, because the whole reason why they didn’t speak anymore was because Sarah refused to acknowledge these certain aspects of her life. And then, suddenly, each session from there was personal, intimate. Learning something knew about each other with each inane exercise Harriet has them do. And when Sarah had cried and apologized and they’d hugged, Kie realized something.

She’s tired of not being difficult.

But by the time four o’clock on Friday rolls around, signaling the start of their fourth session, Kie isn’t difficult. She isn’t anything. She’s just… there. Present. In the moment. And that’s honestly all that could be asked of her. The past week had been interesting; Kie slowly testing her own limits, her own boundaries with how to act, how to present and compose herself in front of her parents, her teachers, her classmates. And it had been exhausting, trying to war with such deeply ingrained tendencies to please others, to make herself as unobtrusive as possible.

Kie knows herself. She’s not an idiot. What had started out as a conscious decision to work towards ‘not being difficult’ has turned into a lifestyle that she is unable to break through will alone.

So, hopefully, Harriet has something helpful today.

The room is mellow when Kie arrives. She and Sarah had carpooled together; the other girl has her own car, something that is common for teenagers whose families live on Figure Eight. Kie knows for a fact that once she finally gets her license, her parents will almost certainly get her one, something that she dreads because the world really doesn’t need _another_ teenager burning gas for the sole reason of looking cool in their own car. The ride itself had been mellow, too; Sarah seemed to have sensed Kie’s mood, and acted accordingly by plugging in a mindless playlist, not talking. Kie wants to tell her she’s grateful for that, but she’s just… not sure how.

JJ and Pope are already present, sitting close to each other, talking. The bruise around JJ’s eye has faded to a sickly yellow color, but the swelling has gone down and judging by the grin on his face, his spirits are up.

Pope nods at the two of them as they take their seats. After last week, Kie realized where she knew Pope from: the Wreck. His dad got specific items for the restaurant, and she’d see him time to time, either accompanying his dad on deliveries or filling in alone. He had come in over the weekend with a delivery, which had been awkward at first but ended up alright when she asked him the appropriate questions about school and the scholarship he had mentioned he was working towards.

Harriet welcomes them with her usual smile, though her eyes dance to the empty chair. John B’s chair.

And isn’t that John B an interesting character. He’s well-known among the islanders, mainly because his dad, Big John, had gone missing at sea almost a year ago. Kie had never really given the boy much thought, save for when her father would mention something about the search for Big John, though those comments were few and happened much earlier, right around when the man had first been reported missing. 

So, John B has been a name Kie was familiar with even before coming here. But putting the actual face to the name was… sad. Because the boy was so clearly alone. Kie doesn’t know how anyone else doesn’t _realize_ , doesn’t _see_. Maybe it’s because like recognizes like or some shit like that, but she certainly recognizes the look of someone who’s nearly given up. Because sometimes, on really bad days, it’s the face that is looking back at her in the mirror.

So, when twenty minutes pass and John B still has not come through that door, Kie is a little worried. It’s the first time Harriet has actually started a session without everyone there, and it feels wrong. Kie’s skin crawls and her ears buzz and she can’t focus on anything Harriet is saying, her foot tap tap tapping as she chews on a hangnail and glances from the clock to Harriet’s mouth, to the creases in Pope’s trousers, to the rings adorning JJ’s fingers, to the brightly-colored choker around Sarah’s neck. 

To the empty chair.

It’s clear everyone else feels restless, too. Sarah is chewing her lip savagely, Pope and JJ exchanging glances. Because even though it’s only been four weeks, Kie can’t ignore how gaping the absence of a fifth feels. It would be the same if any of them were missing. They’re just not complete. Kie wants to stand up, to ask Harriet to stop, to say it’s not right, doing this without John B.

But that would mean being difficult. Years of subduing herself have Kie swallowing her words, forcing herself to stay seated, to open her ears and focus on Harriet. Desperately, she tries, but the task feels impossible.

“Now,” Harriet is saying when the buzzing finally recedes from Kie’s ears, “I’d like you to think about a goal you’d like to accomplish in the next year of your life, whether it’s a personal goal, relationship goal, educational goal, or something else. Let’s take a moment to visualize this goal, bring it forward in your mind’s eye. Let the goal be attainable, physical in your being.”

And what the hell does that even mean? If this had been last week, Kie probably would’ve visualized herself never bothering another person. But now, she’s visualizing every sort of situation that could’ve arisen that would lead to John B missing today’s session. Maybe his dad came home. Maybe he went after his dad. Maybe he crashed on his bike on his way from school and is laying in a ditch somewhere. Maybe his house burned down. Maybe –

Stop. That escalated quickly. Kie closes her eyes, takes a breath. John B is _fine_. Probably. Just relax, he’s not her problem anyways. Instead of letting herself spiral, Kie forces her mind from the boy, desperately scrounging to conjure up some sort of goal she’d like to achieve. Maybe reduce her personal waste to zero? Convince her parents to invest in solar energy? Start her own garden? Are these the even goals that Harriet is looking for? Or are they supposed to be more internally focused? Like, is she supposed to say ‘my goal is to resolve my internal imbalance that causes me anxiety and conflict, because that’s why I’m in therapy’?

She never gets the chance to find out, because suddenly JJ is clearing his throat, leaning forwards.

“Do you have a goal?” Harriet asks, mildly. Like she knows that he sure as hell doesn’t, but wants to hear what he has to say, anyway.

JJ’s face is serious. “I’ve got a question, actually. Where’s John B?”

Harriet leans back, clearly expecting it. Probably surprised it’s taken them so long to ask. She crosses her arms, shakes her head. “I don’t know. These sessions are recommended, but not required, and none of you are technically obligated to inform me if you are unable to attend –”

This time, it’s Pope who interrupts her, his voice fierce. “That’s bullshit! The whole selling point of all this was to work through our shit in this ‘close, intimate group setting’!” He says the last bit mockingly. “And now you’re telling me we don’t even have to _come_? That we can still have the meetings, even when one of us is missing?”

Kie is honestly surprised to hear Pope speak up like this. But part of her is glad, too. Because he’s saying all the things she’s been thinking, all the things that she’s been biting her tongue to hold back on.

JJ holds his hand up before Harriet can address Pope’s comment. “Now, I may not know John B _well_ , but I know him well enough to say, with some confidence, that the kid has literally no one to see, nowhere else to go. These meetings are like his social hour for the week. So if he’s not here…” JJ trails off, shrugs, as if to say, _something isn’t right here_.

Kie glances at Sarah, who’s eyebrows are raised. “Is he even allowed to say that?” She whispers. Kie shrugs back.

Harriet bows her head before looking steadily at JJ and Pope. “I understand your concern,” she says, “and I think that John B would benefit from knowing that you feel this way as well.” Kie watches JJ, as he flushes slightly, as Pope shifts uncomfortably at Harriet’s words. With a swift glance at the clock, which shows they still have twenty-five minutes remaining, Harriet continues. “If you’d prefer, we can call this meeting short and have ourselves a longer one next week.”

Kie thinks that’s kind of odd. Is she allowed to make exceptions like this, make these sorts of changes to their schedule?

If anyone else shares Kie’s hesitancy, they don’t make it clear. JJ pulls himself out of his chair with a nod at Harriet, Pope following closely behind. Sarah and Kie glance at each other, then follow.

Harriet calls after them, just before the four of them make it to the door. “John B is lucky to have friends like you,” she says, voice steady and clear and Kie wants to know what Harriet means, because last time she checked she’s not _friends_ with John B, they just coexist in the same group therapy sessions. And sure, she’s a bit concerned about him right now, and there’s something that feels so wrong about not seeing his tired face here with the others, and just wants to make sure that he’s okay and safe, but she’d probably feel the same way about any of them if someone else wasn’t here, so doesn’t make them friends, it makes them….

Again, nobody says anything to contradict Harriet. And Kie finds herself wondering, honestly, if they _are_ friends. It’s been so long since she’s genuinely tried to make one that she’s not really sure.

Outside, the sky is grayer than it had been when they’d arrived, and there’s a steady wind blowing, bringing with it the smell of rain. Kie stands, unsure, while JJ and Pope and Sarah march forwards. Sarah’s hair is whipping in the wind and Pope’s turned into it, walking backwards. His eyes land on Kie.

“You coming?” He asks. Like there’s been an unspoken, unanimous agreement that they are all going to find John B. Sarah and JJ pause as well, turning back to look at her. Sarah hesitates, then approaches.

“Everything okay?” She asks, and Kie can tell that the concern in her eyes is real. She swallows, thoughts flitting too fast to focus. She feels light, like she’s drifting, no control over where she ends up. Untethered. But she looks into Sarah’s eyes, wide with concern and care and something else Kie can’t exactly place, at JJ and Pope behind her, standing close to each other but not quite touching. Thinks of John B, somewhere, alone, maybe feeling the same way.

Quickly, she nods. Sarah smiles, turns, then looks back. Reaches out her hand.

After a moment, Kie takes it. The smile grows.

They take Sarah’s car, the four of them fitting pretty comfortably, because Sarah’s car is massive. Also, Sarah is apparently the only one with any clue as to where John B lives. Kie sits shotgun, JJ and Pope in the backseat.

Kie stares out the window as they drive, watches as the houses get progressively more rundown, unkempt. The road is bumpy, concrete pockmarked with holes, but Sarah’s car must be heavy enough to absorb the shock as they hit pothole after pothole.

“Are you trying to hit every single bump?” JJ asks from the backseat. Sarah glances at him in the review mirror, flips him off, while Pope snickers. Kie feels a smile tug at her lips.

Sarah pulls up in front of house that holds more charm than most they’ve passed. It’s a pale yellow, has a screened in porch, the yard looks relatively well-cared for.

“This is it?” Pope asks, a note of surprise in his voice. Which, secretly Kie also felt, because this place was pretty nice, for the cut.

Sarah is staring at the house. “It’s where I dropped him off last time.”

JJ shrugs. “Good enough for me.” He more or less kicks the door open and leaps out, heading straight up to the house. Kie, Pope and Sarah scramble after him.

Kie scans the area for any sign of John B. His bike, a stray bandana, the boat he talks about. She doesn’t see anything.

JJ’s at the front door, but before he can even knock, it swings open, revealing a tiny woman wrapped in an oversized orange shawl. They all stop as she regards them.

“Are you looking for John?” She says, and despite her stature her voice is strong. Kie watches as JJ nods, just one head bob. The woman smiles, her wrinkled face looking tired. She steps forwards, causing JJ to take a hasty step back, and points down the road. “He lives a little farther down. Third driveway on the left. Be careful you don’t miss it.”

Sarah steps forwards, looking confused. “But this is where I dropped him off,” she insists. “He doesn’t live here?”

The woman looks at the four of them in turn. “John B never mentioned having friends,” she says, voice unreadable.

“We’re, uh, classmates,” Pope says. “He… missed some class. We just want to check up on him. For class. Because we’re his… classmates.” He trails off, and JJ hits him lightly, making a face that universally translates to _shut the fuck up_.

“Come on,” Sarah is saying, turning back to the car. JJ and Pope follow.

Kie looks at the woman one last time. She looks tiny, but also sturdy, protective. “Third driveway on the left,” Kie repeats, and the woman’s grey eyes flash as she nods. “Thank you.”

“Kie!” Sarah yells from the car. “Come on, let’s go.”

With a nod at the woman, Kie turns and jogs back to the car. Once she’s closed the door, Sarah pulls forwards. Kie glances out the side mirror, watches the woman gazing after their car until she disappears from view.

“Anyone else get witchy vibes from that lady?” JJ says.

“Not every old lady gives off ‘witchy vibes’, JJ,” Pope shoots back, while Kie rolls her eyes.

“Guys, quiet, I’m trying to find the turn,” Sarah says, as if silence will help her vision. “We’ve passed the first… that was the second…” The sides of the road were so overgrown that it was hard to determine where the next driveway might be. Sarah has slowed almost completely to a crawl, and the four go silent, peering forwards for an indication of the driveway.

“Oh! I think that’s it,” JJ says, leaning all the way forwards into the middle of the front seats. Kie bats his arm away from her face as he points forwards.

“Is that even a driveway?” Kie asks. The dirt entrance is almost completely obscured by overgrown bushes and heavy hanging trees.

“Might as well find out,” Sarah says, and fearlessly turns in. Kie winces at the sound of leaves and branches scraping at the sides of the car, but it soon opens up into a wider path, eventually spitting them out a house that seemed a little worse for wear.

Again, JJ is the first one to hop out, doing so almost before Sarah even put the car in park. Kie scans the area, eyes falling on John B’s bike, laying on its side in the over-grown lawn, if you could call it that. Just a bit past the bike is the boat that John B must be working on, hitched to a trailer with a tarp thrown haphazardly on top of it.

Kie jumps when a hand smacks her window. “Y’all coming or just going to watch from there?” JJ asks.

“Fuck you,” Kie says with no heat as she climbs out. The air feels heavy, the house foreboding. It’s dark, and nobody comes to the front door when JJ bounds up the sagging steps, peers through the drooping screen door.

“’Lo?” He calls into the house. “Anybody home?”

There’s no response. Kie wraps her arms around herself tightly, digs her fingernails into the softness of her upper arm. None of this feels right. John B should’ve been at therapy today, Kie should’ve been able to just sit through the session, listening and occasionally commenting but overall just… existing.

But sometimes, things don’t go the way people want them to go. Sometimes, things get difficult.

“Are you okay?” Sarah is next to her, looking at her with concern, which is stupid because it’s pretty clear that John B is the one that needs their concern. Kie shrugs. Sarah looks down at the ground, then up at JJ and Pope, who are still hanging by the front door, debating if they should just go in or not. “It’s fine if you’re not,” Sarah says softly.

“I just…” Kie struggles to find the words, to express how it feels wrong to be here, with Sarah and JJ and Pope, because Kie is supposed to be easy, agreeable. She doesn’t know how to tell Sarah that for a long time, she barely even felt like a person, because so much of her personality was censored in her life-long effort not to be difficult. “I’m not okay. But I think I will be.” And, before Sarah can say anything, she says, “and I think John B needs our help more right now.”

Sarah’s lips are pulled flat, but she doesn’t disagree, and they move to join JJ and Pope, who are _still_ standing at the door.

“Move,” Kie says, and pushes right through, ignoring their gaping as she does. “John B? You in here?”

The inside is just as depressing as the outside. The other three have followed her in, and they take in the state of the room. It’s dark, there’s clutter everywhere, stacked high on every available surface, and dust billows up when Kie moves to pull the shades open.

Pope flicks the light switch on and off. “No power,” he says. “We sure anybody even lives here?”

Kie points without looking to the shoes she’d noticed by the front door; dirty white converse, kicked off haphazardly. “Those are his, right?” She says, before going further into the house. “John B! It’s, uh, Kiara! And JJ and Pope and Sarah! You home?”

Still no response. The kitchen is barren except for some Tupperware in the sink. The food in it looks old, and Kie wrinkles her nose at it. Sarah makes a soft sound of disgust.

Further still, Kie finds a series of closed doors. Probably bedrooms. “Hello?” She calls. “Last warning, John B, come out or we’re coming in!”

There’s no response, and Sarah sounds worried when she says, “What if he’s –“

“Don’t even say that,” JJ snaps. He shoulders past Kie, starts trying the doors. The first one is locked, and JJ rattles it for a moment before moving swiftly to the next one. The other three follow him closely, and he crows in success when the next door swings open.

Any victory feels hollow, however, when Kie’s eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. The shades are drawn, making it feel darker than it should, and there’s a figure laying in the bed.

“John B?” Sarah’s the one to whisper his name. They’re all struck motionless, taking in the state of the room.

The figure moves. Kie catches a flash of eyes, reflecting in the light coming from the open door. “…. Sarah?”

John B’s voice is rough. Like he hasn’t used it in a while.

“We’re here too, man,” JJ says jokingly, but his tone is off. He moves further into the room, headed to the window, where he proceeds to open the blinds. The rain has stopped, and it’s still overcast, but still brings some light into the room. “Jesus, man, when’s the last time you’ve seen the sun?”

The joke falls flat when John B sits up, looking at them through tired eyes. He looks wan, like he’s not all there.

“What day is it?” He asks, and Kie’s heart drops.

“Uh, it’s Friday, man,” Pope says. “You weren’t at therapy, so…”

John B still looks confused, and Kie realizes that even though they’ve laid out all the pieces, he still isn’t putting them together; isn’t understanding that they came to find him because they were _worried_.

“JJ, Pope,” Kie says suddenly. “Do you guys want to see if you can get some food, or something?” The boys nod, exchanging glances, before ducking out. “Sarah, um…” Sarah, who has been regarding the room with a dejected look on her face, snaps to attention. “Can you give us a moment?”

If Sarah is confused as to why Kie suddenly is showing interest in being alone with John B, she doesn’t say anything, just nods and steps out, hopefully to help JJ and Pope find food, which, from the looks of the kitchen, will be a very difficult feat.

John B is staring at Kie, but his eyes are distant, hollow. She steps towards his bed, and when he doesn’t say anything, tentatively sits down on the edge of it.

“How are you?” She asks, and immediately berates herself for such a stupid question. She’s _been_ in this situation before, she’s been in John B’s shoes, what would she want someone to say to her? Probably not a question with an obvious answer of ‘pretty fucking bad’.

John B ignores her question, which, fair. “Why’d you come?” He says instead. “How did you find my house?” He sounds a bit more animated with that question, but his voice is still rough. Kie glances around for some water, but sees none.

“Well, when you weren’t at Harriet’s, we all got kind of worried… and then Sarah took us to some lady’s house who told us where you live.”

“But why?” John B repeats.

“Well, for starters, therapy just wasn’t the same without you sleeping through it,” Kie says lightly, and a ghost of a smile crosses John B’s face. More seriously, Kie adds, “We were worried. Nobody had heard from you.”

John B grimaces, and immediately Kie knows what he’s thinking; that he’s a burden, making them worry and come all this way. “Sorry.”

“No, no – it’s not a problem. We would’ve done it for any of us. JJ, Sarah, Pope. I hope –” Kie suddenly finds that her throat is tight, making it hard to speak. “I would like to think you guys would’ve done it for me.”

John B’s face softens, before he leans forwards and scrubs his face with his hands, groaning. “You should take a shower,” Kie suggests, satisfied when John B nods. He still seems reluctant to move, so Kie stands up, offers her hand. He stares at it like he’s never seen anything like it before looking up at Kie, and her heart breaks at his expression.

She waits, and slowly, he reaches up and takes her hand, letting her pull him out of bed, out the door. Thankfully, he heads to the bathroom on his own, and Kie goes back in the direction of the kitchen, where JJ, Pope, and Sarah appear to be having a standoff of sorts around the table.

“Mushrooms are absolutely the _last_ thing that should be put on pizza, period –” Pope is saying, but they all turn and look at Kie as she appears.

“Where’s John B?” JJ asks.

“Showering.” She glances around. While it seems that the three were unsuccessful in locating any food, they did do some freshening up to the place; windows are open, letting fresh air in, and surfaces look a little less dusty and decrepit than before.

“We’re ordering pizza,” Sarah explains, phone in hand. “Figured we could all use some. Do you have a preference?”

“No meat,” Kie says automatically, forgetting herself for a moment. Weeks ago, she would’ve shaken her head and gone with whatever the others preferred. Now, though, she’s voicing her opinions without a second thought. Something that does _not_ abide by Kie’s ‘don’t be difficult’ lifestyle.

Sarah nods, accepting it easily, and JJ and Pope again launch into a debate about the worst pizza toppings. It’s _easy_ , hanging with them, and soon they’ve migrated to the living room, which, despite the dust, has a homey feel to it. Kie examines some photos hanging on the walls while Sarah calls in the order and Pope and JJ make themselves comfortable on the sagging couch.

After some time, John B appears, standing in the doorway between the living room and kitchen. His hair is damp and his clothes look clean, but he has a decidedly odd expression on his face as he stares at them all.

“Dude, you alright?” JJ asks, noticing him.

John B nods, cracks a smile, and moves further into the room, still glancing around at all of them. “Yeah, it’s just… been a while since anyone’s been over.”

“We could kind of tell,” Pope says bluntly, referring to the general state of disarray the house had been in.

“Well, I hope you’re hungry,” Sarah says as she shoves her phone in her back pocket. “Just ordered the pizza.”

JJ hoots and Pope grins, but John B looks stricken. “You ordered it here? I don’t – they can’t –”

Sarah raises a hand, cutting him off. “Don’t worry, I ordered it to my place. So, we should probably get going soon.”

John B still looks hesitant. Kie wonders what he’s thinking. This must all feel so new. _She_ had felt out of her element even coming here, so for John B, who, from what she can tell, is more than used to being alone, having a house full of people who actually care enough to have come seek him out must feel pretty unusual.

Still, he doesn’t say anything, just follows them out to Sarah’s car. Kie can’t help but notice that he doesn’t even lock the door behind him, a habit that her parents had ingrained in her at a young age.

Kie takes shot gun again, and twists to watch with some amusement as the boys pile into the backseat, with John B in the middle.

“Um,” he says, looking down at his hands, which are twisted in his lap. “Thanks. For coming to get me.”

“Like I said,” Kie says, glancing at JJ and Pope, then to the side, to Sarah, who is gazing at her with clear eyes, “We would’ve done it for anyone. We’re… it’s not right, missing one of us.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Pope makes a noise, starts struggling with something in his pocket. His phone. “I was thinking – we should make a group chat. Should we? I mean, that’s something people do, right? So, like this sort of thing doesn’t happen again? Or, I mean, stupid idea, let’s forget it--” 

“Pope,” Sarah cuts in. “It’s a great idea.” She makes grabby-hands for his phone, puts her contact in before passing it to Kie, who does the same before handing it off to John B, who takes it, looking uncomfortable.

“I don’t really have a phone,” he says.

There’s a moment of silence. “Well, that kind of negates the whole point of this.” JJ points out.

“Well,” Sarah says, busying herself with putting the car into drive and pulling back out of the over-grown driveway, “We’ll figure it out. We can have, like, a buddy system, or something. Check in on each other.”

The boys make noises of agreement from the back. Kie glances at Sarah, taking the time to really look at her friend while Sarah keeps her eyes trained on the road ahead. Because, as crazy as it is, they _are_ friends. Kie is sitting in a car with four people, four friends. If someone had told her a month ago that she’d end up here, in Sarah Cameron’s car, with the sheriff’s ward, the island’s lost boy, and a loner scholarship student, driving off to get pizza, she would never have believed it. 

Not because she doesn’t believe in friends. But because a month ago, Kie was struggling just to get out of bed every day. To face another day of not being difficult. 

But now, she’s held Sarah’s hand. Teased Pope. Rolled eyes at JJ. Dragged John B out of bed. Things friends do for each other.

And it feels, good. Lighter. Like her chest isn’t so heavy, like she can breathe again.

Because being with them… it isn’t difficult. And slowly, Kie is relearning how to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still bonding... slowly but surely... praying their interactions didn't feel forced.
> 
> as always, thank you to everyone for reading this!! i love love love hearing what you all think about this so thank you to everyone who has commented:)
> 
> next chapter... we will get JJ's POV finally


	5. jj

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i only read over this once before posting... please dont be shy to point out mistakes or things that seem confusing 
> 
> warning for description of on-going child abuse (non-graphic)

When JJ was younger, there were two words he would’ve used to describe himself with: weak and stupid.

Weak because he just _was_. It was something made very clear to him by his father, by years and years of being hit or slapped or smacked –because there’s a difference between the three, JJ would know—for anything that displeased his dad. Normally, the reasoning behind them had something to do with JJ being a disappointment, for being too loud, for being too slow, for being _weak_. And JJ never hit back, which again, weak.

Stupid because, well, does he have to spell it out? Oh right, he can’t. Because he never learned how to fucking read and write.

Okay, that’s not true. Around eight years old, when his teacher noticed that his reading and writing comprehension wasn’t a normal brand of stupid for that age, he was tossed into advanced reading help, which took him out of his normal class for thirty minutes each day and a nice young teacher told him about _dyslexia_ and how it affects reading and learning the alphabet and shit like that.

So, while JJ was given some tips and tools to make the ‘very common disability’ more manageable, all he saw was that he was isolated from the ‘normal’ kids, thrown into a room with others just as dumb as he was. Saw how this made him different, made him stand out, something that he typically tried very much to avoid. Because being seen meant being questioned. Or hit. Depends on the situation.

So, yeah, for the majority of JJ’s life, he saw himself as two things; weak and stupid. And when Peterkin came into his life, after his dad literally beat him to the point where two ribs caved in and JJ, in his severely concussed state, actually dragged himself to the hospital and actually told the _truth_ , she had tried, in her blunt, non-expressive way, to tell him that he was neither of those things. That he was _strong_ for surviving and _smart_ for seeking help, for telling the truth. And then, suddenly, he was living with her and there was a physical court order mandating that his father must keep a minimum of five hundred meters away from JJ, and, for the first time JJ can remember, he felt… _safe_.

Of course, living with Peterkin pretty much brought his recreational activities of drinking and smoking to a full stop, though he suspects that there are odd hours of the night when he’s up, sneaking a joint, and she’s up, sneaking a cigarette. But neither of them say anything, so JJ’s not sure. But he has his suspicions.

And, of course, she forces him to go to therapy. Something that, at first, JJ resisted with every fiber of his being. Peterkin had to literally _drag_ him to their first meeting, coerce him into getting into the car under threat of being on dish duty for the rest of the month, and though he’d groaned and dragged his feet and basically did everything to make it difficult, it had been nice to have someone care enough about him to bodily force him into the car, but do it in a way that didn’t make him feel unsafe. To set things like _more chores_ as consequences for bad behavior, rather than a beating.

JJ had pretty much been expecting a bunch of whiny teens, people whose main hardships in life were based off things like friendship drama or being grounded or a crippling drinking problem. And at first, they certainly seemed it. The two girls –JJ hadn’t cared to pay enough attention to remember their names after the first meeting—seemed like the definition of kooks, and the guy, Pope, just seemed kind of annoying. The only person JJ had recognized was John B, who, true to form, looked like he could barely give enough of a shit to have dressed himself that morning.

Honestly, at first, JJ pitied them. They all seemed so pathetic, trying to manifest hardships and traumas just by being in a room where it’s expected they have some. And then, he envied them. Because, as he slowly and unwillingly learned more about them, it was clear that they were different from him. They all seemed to have families to go home to at the end of the day, didn’t have to worry about treading lightly in their own home. If JJ was still living with his dad, he would’ve snapped at them. Maybe even thrown a punch or two.

But if he was with his dad, he wouldn’t be here. And then he just got sad. But that _stupid_ exercise Harriet had them do that first day, to write down their fears. Because Kie couldn’t read what he’d written, and it was just a clear reminder of one of his fundamental truths: that he is, indeed, stupid.

But after a few sessions, JJ realized that while therapy was still ridiculous, the people were… actually kind of cool. Well, Pope, mainly, because after the first session they’d started talking and hadn’t exactly stopped, but after they’d all banded together to go find John B, JJ decided that Sarah, despite her status as kook princess, and Kie, despite her at times too-passive demeanor, were alright. JJ even figures that after the pizza night at Sarah’s house, after dragging John B out of his self-imposed bed sentence, that the five of them were… friends.

It’s a weird thought, because JJ grew up lonely. At school, other kids just seemed to be able to _sense_ that there was something wrong with him, whether it was because he needed special help with school work or because his clothes were constantly dirty, knees and elbows perpetually scuffed, and there weren’t exactly any neighborhood kids that he could invite over, because there was no way he’d ever willingly invite someone into his home. So, suddenly having Pope checking in on him and Sarah throwing snark back and forth with him and Kie rolling her eyes at him and John B talking about surfing with him… it was different. Unfamiliar. But nice.

Almost helps him forget that his father’s hearing is coming up soon. Because, apparently, there are consequences for breaking a court-mandated restraining order, especially when that restraining order was put in place due to ‘alarming’ levels of child abuse and neglect. And especially when one breaks that restraining order to beat the child they are currently under investigation of abusing.

Does any of that make sense? JJ doesn’t really care, except for the fact that he’s free. Peterkin had kept saying that his dad can’t hurt him anymore, which was great until he learned that it _wasn’t true_ , because the doorbell had rang and JJ had opened it, assuming it was a friend of Peterkin’s or, secretly, hoping that maybe it was Pope, but instead it was the grim face of his father, red with anger, and then it was a fist and the world blossomed in an array of dark blue and black and purple, pain.

But even though he knows that this is the point of therapy, that he’s expected to open up and share his innermost thoughts and fears until the five of them are positively gushing with love for each other, he can’t find it in himself to open up. To let himself form the words that, for some reason, he finds himself wanting to say. _My dad is going to jail. But I have to go to his hearing first._

Today’s session is subdued, comfortable. There’s a new energy in the air, and if JJ believed in that kind of stuff he’d say they feel… connected to each other now, in a way that they weren’t before. Before they’d had pizza at Sarah’s house, which was just as massive as JJ had been expecting but felt insurmountably empty, lonely. Before they’d had a movie night at Kie’s later that weekend, dodging inquisitive stares from her parents, who were clearly trying _not_ to be too overbearing, but continued to pop in and offer snacks and drinks regardless. Before JJ, John B and Pope had _finally_ gone surfing together, meeting up at a secluded beach that John B swore had the best waves.

As ridiculous JJ thought these sessions were, he can’t deny that they’re effective, in some way. In giving JJ a glimpse into what normal life is like, having friends and hanging out together and what not. Not having to avoid going home for as long as he could manage, not having to tamp down his fear once he _did_ go home.

Today, Harriet greets them with her usual subdued smile. JJ doesn’t really pay her any attention, doesn’t really pay anyone any attention, because his eyes are on Pope. They have been since that first day, when the other boy had come up to him after the session, after JJ had fled when Kiara couldn’t read his handwriting.

Pope intrigued JJ, to say the least. He didn’t really seem to give a fuck about any of them, or anyone in general. He seemed like the sort of uptight, grade-oriented nerd that JJ would have never crossed paths with in a million years, yet here they were, both in group therapy. And then Pope had come up to him after the first session and didn’t ask about why JJ had stormed out of there, didn’t prod too deeply when the sheriff picked him up. They talked about surfing with John B, and the conversation was easy and normal and didn’t make JJ’s heart pound and head feel light and empty like so many conversations he’s had before.

It was friendly. At least, as much as JJ can imagine what that would be like.

Harriet is speaking. Probably concocting some brain-dead exercise for them to gush over.

Okay, that’s not fair. After four sessions, JJ has to admit that there’s _some_ sense behind what they do here. Some inane sense of relief that comes from answering Harriet’s questions, repeating her self-affirmations, visualizing whatever she wants them to visualize that day. He gets that it’s supposed to help. He also gets that it doesn’t always feel like it’s helping.

Everybody is here today. Sarah and Kie keep sneaking glances at each other from where they’re sitting, separated by Pope. John B actually looks coherent for once, his eyes showing a bit more life than usual. Pope is bouncing his leg, as usual, and his eyes keep flicking to JJ’s, which is unusual. Normally, Pope keeps his eye on the clock. JJ knows this, because he’s normally the one watching the other boy.

“Today, I want us to start off with an exercise that I think we can all benefit from. It has a few different names, but I find the most self-explanatory to be ‘Strength Spotting’.”

Oh boy, JJ thinks.

“I want you each to think about a time you experienced a positive success, something you’re proud of, whether it’s an accomplishment at school, at work, in a relationship, or a personal success.”

JJ zones out a bit. He doesn’t have any sort of success story worth sharing. _That one time where he was smart enough to climb in through the window to avoid a beating_ doesn’t exactly feel on brand for this sort of exercise. Similarly, talking about _the week where he got away with living in the school locker rooms after hours to avoid going home_ doesn’t feel right, either.

Harriet is still talking. JJ feels that for group therapy, where they, the participants, are meant to be working through their issues via conversation, Harriet eats up a lot of the talking time. “After we each share our story, we’ll offer feedback to each other, identifying strengths that we saw in the story.”

We. We, we, we. Harriet’s favorite word. JJ’s pretty sure she’s not actually going to share any stories herself, so stop pretending.

“We’ll take a moment to reflect, and then JJ, perhaps you could start us off?”

JJ’s head snaps up. Harriet is looking at him imploringly, and the other four regard him with a varying degree of different expressions, from sympathy to amusement.

“Um, do I have to?” He asks. Looks around, hoping someone else would. He makes eye contact with Pope, who just shakes his head. Harriet doesn’t even answer, just smiles softly.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she encourages.

Great. No getting out of this one. JJ honestly tries to reflect, tries to find a time in his life that isn’t marred by his father, by his low sense of self-worth. Something he’s accomplished, something he’s proud of. Jesus, he’s accomplished _something_ in his life, he’s sure of it. Does that one time that he held his breath for three minutes count? Does surfing his first wave count?

JJ’s panic must be clear on his face, because John B of all people clears his throat. “Actually, can I go?”

Harriet nods. John B looks down at his hands. “So, this was a couple of years ago,” he starts. “But I guess it could be considered an accomplishment.” He goes on to tell them about a time that the electricity company had sent a notice saying they would shut off power to the house if they missed another payment. John B had gone out and picked up as many odd jobs as he could in order to make enough money to pay off the bill.

When he finishes talking, he looks unsatisfied, and JJ wonders what else he’s not saying. About ditching school to pick up more work. JJ knows John B was living with his dad at that point –something that he’s clearly not doing now—and wonders why Big John couldn’t pay it.

But that’s not the point of this exercise, JJ is reminded, when Sarah opens her mouth and says, unprompted, “I think that shows dedication,” she says. “You set out to achieve a goal, and you did.”

“It shows you’re realistic, pragmatic.” Pope. “You know how to prioritize and get things done.”

Man, JJ hates this fucking exercise. Are any of those things even strengths? They all now know for a fact that John B is living in a house without power, alone, so how must it feel to hear them praise him for doing a good job for something that didn’t even last?

Maybe JJ’s being too harsh. It’s just – things feel different, now. They know each other better. They’ve all hung out together. Are these sessions even needed, anymore?

For him, yes, because Peterkin won’t let him get out of it. But, like, should they update Harriet? Tell her that they’ve kind of progressed since the beginning?

Or can she see that already? The woman is so calm and refined that it’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking, what she knows.

JJ belatedly realizes that Sarah is speaking. “The first time I stood up to my brother,” she says, arms wrapped loosely around herself, not looking at anyone. JJ knows a bit about Rafe Cameron, mainly that he’s a serious cokehead. He honestly had kind of forgotten that Sarah was related to him.

“He wanted something from me, at this point I don’t even remember what,” Sarah’s saying. “Probably money. It doesn’t even really matter. I was just so tired of it, so I said no. Screamed it, actually. And then went on to ream him out for every terrible thing he’d done since mom died.” She laughs a little but doesn’t sound amused. “He looked so fucking shocked, like he couldn’t believe I was saying those things. I only stopped when my dad practically dragged me to my room. But Rafe didn’t bother me as much after that. Not when he was sober, at least. And it felt _so good_ to finally say those things.” Sarah looks up, smiles slightly.

There’s a pause before Kie speaks. “I want to say that you’re so strong for doing that, but I don’t think that I can say ‘strength’ is a strength,” she says. “I guess you could call it… self-advocacy?”

“Standing up for yourself,” John B supplies.

“Brave,” Pope says.

JJ doesn’t say anything.

“I think…” Kie starts, taking it upon herself to go next. She chews her lip, eyes darting around, as if trying to decide between something. Finally, she sighs. “When I helped organize the beach clean-up last year. We picked up nearly two hundred pounds of trash from public beaches in one day.”

“I remember that!” Sarah exclaims, a smile brightening her face. “That was incredible.”

“You helped organize that?” Pope says, looking mildly impressed. Kie shrugs, waves her hand as if shooing away their reactions.

“It really wasn’t much,” she says. “Mainly made possible through the school. But… yeah, it was my idea.”

JJ feels like his mind is blank, completely devoid of any rational thought. He knows, intuitively, that Kie’s story is an accomplishment, a reason for pride. But he can’t seem to think of any strength identifiers from it. He’s too busy trying to figure out what he can even say.

“Organization,” Sarah is saying. “Self-efficacy.” What the fuck does that even mean? JJ feels like he’s missing something, some fundamental essence that would make this exercise seem like anything other than the waste of time that it is. A sense of self-worth, perhaps?

Pope is speaking. JJ feels like he’s missing time, there’s a buzzing in his ears that has been steadily growing.

“I guess, around the end of freshman year, when one of my teachers told me about this scholarship to work towards. She went through the requirements with me, which at the time seemed nearly impossible, but she pretty much told me she knew I could do it, helped me outline goals to set for each semester to do it. And that… it was the first time someone had really told me that I could _do_ something, that they believed in me.”

“Modesty,” Kie says. “You’re one of the smartest people I know, of course you can get this scholarship!”

“Perseverance,” Sarah says. “Dedication.”

John B nods. “Hard working.”

JJ doesn’t say anything.

Everyone is looking at him. JJ feels like the room is getting smaller, like there’s not enough air to breathe. What the fuck is he supposed to say? How can he, JJ Maybank, son of a woman who hated him so much she abandoned him and a man who only saw him good for a beating, possibly come up with an accomplishment that he can share with these people?

JJ barely notices as his hands start to tremble, as his heart rate picks up. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he forces out through a rapidly closing throat. “There’s nothing in my life I can talk about. Nothing.”

Harriet opens her mouth, says, “JJ, I’m sure that’s not true –”

“IT IS!” He explodes. “It fucking is, Harriet, so cut the bullshit! What do you want to hear? How I’ve spent my whole life locked in a house with a man who hates me, too fucking weak to fight back? How it wasn’t until I had to go to the _hospital_ that someone finally fucking noticed me?” He can’t look at anyone, his eyes glued to Harriet, who is gazing steadily back at him. If he looks away, looks at John B or Sarah or Kie or Pope, he thinks he might die.

“That’s why I fucking hate this,” JJ says. He can feel himself getting flushed, worked up, knows that he probably looks crazy right now, cheeks red and eyes bright and wild. “I hate these fucking sessions because everyone keeps saying they’re supposed to help and I keep waiting for that to happen, to magically feel better, but _it never does_.”

Horrifyingly, his voice breaks on the last word. Not sparing a moment, JJ bolts from his seat, tears out the door, down the hallway, and out into the dwindling afternoon light. He keeps walking until he feels like he can breathe again, and then, he slides to the ground. Puts his face in his hands, knots his fingers in his hair, and breathes.

JJ doesn’t care that the few people he might consider friends just bore witness to what Harriet would probably call a ‘breakdown’, doesn’t care that this isn’t his first time storming out of therapy. Listening to everyone share their stories, identifying strengths, just made it all the clearer how fucked up he is. He’s the stupid, weak, Maybank boy. Screw him for ever thinking that could change.

Dimly, he registers someone approaching him. Slides down next to him. Expecting Harriet, JJ rolls his eyes, says, “I’m not interested in whatever you have to say.”

A voice that is definitely _not_ Harriet says, “That’s alright.” Pope.

JJ whips his head up, gazing at the other boy in confusion. Last time JJ had stormed out, Harriet had followed, they’d talked for a bit, and okay, maybe he felt a little better after that, but that was a one-time thing. He’d kind of expected today to play out the same way, but now, here with Pope, he isn’t sure how to feel. Embarrassed, maybe. But also… pleased?

“I thought…” JJ starts, then trails off. Because he decides that it doesn’t really matter _what_ he had thought, what matters is that Pope followed him out, sat down with him, voluntarily.

He has to look away. Pope’s eyes are too earnest, face too serious. Like JJ’s wellbeing is a serious matter. Like he cares. JJ’s not sure what to do with that.

Pope heaves a breath next to him. “I know what you meant, about it not helping. Therapy, I mean. It’s hard, really, to know how you’re supposed to feel, I think. But I know it’s helped me. Before I started coming to these, I didn’t really _do_ anything. I went to school, focused on my work, went home. The only people I talked to regularly were my parents and teachers, and even then, only when really forced too.” Pope huffs a laugh. “But now, and I honestly have no idea how it happened, I have you guys. Like, I think about you.”

At that, JJ looks over, brows raised. Pope quickly backtracks. “All of you!” He exclaims, looking panicked. “Like you, John B, Sarah, Kie. Even Harriet. It’s like… I don’t even really know how to say this. I have other people to think about, to wonder about, to worry about. It’s not just _me_ anymore. Like, I still hate talking about our feelings and what not and the thought of talking to people in my classes is still extremely unappealing, but it’s different now. I don’t know how much better, but different for sure.”

JJ thinks that over for a moment, before disregarding all of it and looking over at Pope with a smirk. “You think about me.”

Groaning, Pope throws his hands into the air. “ _Clearly_ I’m still working on how to ‘adequately connect with my peers’,” he jokes, but he’s not looking at JJ.

Silence falls. JJ wonders what he’s supposed to say. Is it now his turn to reveal how therapy has made him ‘different’? He tries to reflect, to see if it really has. Maybe, in like a few weeks, he’ll feel something, but all he feels right now is lost. Like he’s floating away, untethered. For so long, as awful as it is, his tether had been his dad. His father. The expected unexpectedness of him, the comforting fact that JJ always knew where he stood with the man. His routine, his self-care skills, the little things he’d do to escape the house for a few hours. Now, that’s gone, and living in Peterkin’s house makes him feel like a scrap, a shadow, a smudge on her practical lifestyle. She’s stern, no-nonsense, but also the most mother-like figure JJ’s had in his life. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

He’s different in that he’s not alone anymore. Not isolated. They have that group chat that they made after going to John B’s house, even though John B doesn’t even have a phone –something that Sarah said she’d ‘take care of’ somehow—and because of it, he has people checking in on him. Something he’s never had before.

“Can I ask you something?” Pope says, interrupting JJ’s internal ruminations.

“Shoot.”

Pope pauses long enough for JJ to turn to look at him. They make eye contact for a moment before Pope looks away. “What did you write, that first day?” He asks.

JJ rocks back a little. The infamous fear exercise. Of course Pope would ask about it – JJ doesn’t blame him, he’d probably be wondering the same thing.

Does it really matter, JJ wants to ask. What good will it do, knowing?

“Mine was failure,” Pope volunteers unnecessarily. JJ had figured that out the moment he’d opened the paper, focused on connecting the small, neatly-written letters into a sound, a word he could read out loud. He’d been so fucking thankful it was just one word. So fucking thankful that Pope was the sort of practical where he wouldn’t waste more words where one will do the trick.

Sighing, JJ says, “Never changing.” He doesn’t elaborate, but from the look on Pope’s face, he doesn’t think he really has to.

“That’s fair,” Pope says. “I’m scared of that, too. But I guess that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

JJ turns to the other boy, really looks. Pope is the polar opposite of anyone JJ would’ve ever thought to interact with. He cares too much about his grades and his scholarship and school in general, about how his parents regard him and what college he’ll go to and all these things that have never even crossed JJ’s mind. But Pope is also kind, and can put up with JJ’s bullshit, and knows where to get the best sandwiches after surfing. He doesn’t always ask the right questions, but he doesn’t really ask any wrong ones, and when he smiles JJ feels like someone flipped a switch inside him, like a light that’s been off for too long finally coming back to life.

“I guess it is,” JJ says. “Hey, can I tell you something?”

Pope nods, eyes bright and caring, but before JJ can say _my dad is going to jail and I’m so fucking thankful_ , another voice says, “There you guys are!”

Sarah and Kie, each with an arm looped around John B, approach where JJ and Pope are sitting.

“We weren’t sure if you guys were coming back or not,” Kie says.

“Nah,” JJ says, even though his heart feels like it’s beating a thousand times per minute due to the near reveal of what’s been eating him since he went to live with Peterkin. “Just planning our escape from this tiny little island. We’re thinking of going to another, less-boring island. Like Australia.”

Pope makes a face. “Um, not sure if you can consider Australia an island.”

JJ makes a face right back. “Um, I’m pretty sure you can. A body of land, surrounded by water? Sounds like an island to me.”

“By those rules, any continent could be considered an island,” John B says.

“He’s got a point,” Sarah remarks. “Anyways, can we come on this escape?”

“Of course,” JJ says. “Wouldn’t be the same without all of you! Think we should invite Harriet, too?”

They laugh and roll their eyes, but eventually fall silent.

“We really can’t make it through one session with all of us there, can we,” Sarah says, and her tone is joking but JJ still bristles.

A hand on his shoulder suddenly grounds him, pulling his attention to the boy next to him. Pope doesn’t say anything, just leaves his hand on JJ’s shoulder, and for some reason, that’s the tipping point.

“My dad’s going to court,” he hears himself saying. “Because I finally told someone. At the hospital. And I have to go, apparently. To testify against him. Or like, be a witness, or some shit. I don’t know. But it’s happening. In a month.”

Everyone is silent for a moment. John B breaks away from the girls and comes to sit on JJ’s other side, close but not exactly touching. “That’s rough,” he says, and JJ wants to laugh, wants to scream, because _yes, John B, rough doesn’t fucking BEGIN to cover it._ “I’m sorry you have to go through that, have to see him again. But it’s what he deserves.”

Sarah and Kie come over, lower themselves down as well. “You have incredible resilience,” Kie says. “And courage.” JJ knows what she’s doing; playing into Harriet’s exercise, naming his strengths. He’ll admit, it feels kind of… nice.

“That doesn’t begin to cover it,” Sarah says, reaching out to touch JJ’s knuckles briefly. JJ thinks back to her cokehead brother, Rafe, her story about standing up to him. Similar, but different. “We’re here for you, JJ. Whatever you need.”

“I’m proud of you,” Pope says, and even though JJ’s only really known these people for a few weeks, he really can’t imagine being in this situation, dealing with the reality of his father’s trial without them.

Horrified, he feels his eyes growing moist, and immediately brings his palms up, presses them hard against his face, as if he can force his tear ducts to close. JJ knows he’s fucked up, knows that his notion of family is different from everyone else’s’. But then, he thinks of John B’s near-foreclosed house, of Sarah’s massive, empty home, of Pope’s parent’s hard expectations, of Kiara’s out-of-touch mother and father. Maybe all of them have different experiences, expectations for family.

But all he knows, is that sitting here, on this sidewalk, with Pope, John B, Sarah, and Kie, he’s never felt more at home in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone who has read/commented/left a kudo!! i love hearing what you think, comments are very motivating so thank you to everyone who has left one:) 
> 
> the idea for the strength exercise came from this website: https://positivepsychology.com/group-therapy/


	6. pope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please excuse any mistakes, feel free to ask questions if you need clarification for things... i read over this once before posting whoops

Something Pope realizes pretty quickly about his new friends, is that things seem to go from zero to one hundred pretty quickly.

When he’d first started therapy, under his school guidance counselor’s recommendation to help him learn to make friends, Pope’s life had been relatively simple, split into straightforward, uncomplicated segments. School, which was split evenly into classes. Home, which was split into time dedicated to schoolwork and time dedicated to helping his parents. Every minute of his day went towards something useful, productive, and he liked it just fine that way.

Sure, maybe he didn’t have any friends, which apparently is somewhat of a ‘red flag’ for the quality of life for a sixteen-year-old boy. But in his defense, friends were complicated, with their own feelings and agendas and opinions and it was just easier to _not_ deal with that when his own life was already so blissfully uncomplicated. Where the only person he had to rely on, the only person he could blame for when he fell short, was himself.

But therapy happened, and inexplicably Pope has found himself intertwined in the lives of the four others who share this session. It just sort of happened, with what felt like minimal effort on his part. But maybe that’s how true friendships are supposed to be; effortless.

Regardless, Pope fully blames his guidance counselor for the reason that he is currently sitting driver’s seat of his dad’s old pickup truck, JJ sprawled out in shotgun, John B sitting tensely in the back seat. It’s dark, past nightfall, and all three of them have their eyes trained on the dark driveway in front of them.

“Should it be taking this long?” JJ complains, though Pope picks up on a tinge of worry underlying his words. “Like, it’s just your average jailbreak, right?”

Because, yes. It is. Sarah hadn’t been at therapy that day. Their _last day_. Pope still can’t believe it, that he’s finished with the mandatory six sessions. It doesn’t feel right, certainly didn’t feel right with Sarah not there. Luckily, however, unlike with the case of John B’s absence, they all knew _why_ Sarah wasn’t there, thanks to their handy group-chat. Pope is genuinely still amazed that he, Pope Heyward, is even _part_ of a group chat. With his peers. Something that he would never have predicted in a million years, if he’s being honest.

Anyways, Sarah had texted them about an hour before the session was supposed to start. **Dad found out** , she’d said. **Won’t be there today. I’m sorry.**

Kie had responded almost immediately, demanding to know what had happened.

**Locked me in my room. Send help**. Then came an inordinate amount of emojis, making it a little difficult for Pope to discern if Sarah was being serious or not.

After a few more frantic texts from Kie, and a general inquiry from Pope, they’d gotten a bit more information: Sarah hadn’t actually told anyone in her family that she was going to therapy. Her dad apparently saw the statement on their insurance and had been less-than-pleased that his allegedly ‘perfect daughter’ was attending group therapy every week. And when he did find out, apparently the conclusion he came to was to ‘lock Sarah in her room all so that she can’t go’.

**Come for me tonight** , Sarah had instructed. **Plz.** More emojis.

Kiara had wanted to leave the moment they’d received Sarah’s message, insistent to an extent Pope didn’t know she was capable of. In the end, it had been Sarah who was the only one who could talk sense into her via text, saying that her dad was around until some work party that evening, and it would be too risky to come before then.

It wouldn’t be safe until then.

So, even though it had felt wrong for multiple reasons, one being that it was their _last session_ and the other being that last week it had been Sarah who’d pointed out that they seem to have trouble getting through each session with all of them there, they went to therapy. If Harriet was surprised that they didn’t form a mass exodus and leave to go get Sarah like they did for John B, she didn’t show it. That’s one thing –maybe the only thing—that Pope likes about Harriet. She keeps her reactions to herself.

Today, Harriet starts them with some long-winded speech about how yes, this is their last session, but she encourages them to continue to seek help if they want to. “You’ve all come far from our first meeting,” she says, looking at each and every one of them in turn. “I’m proud of all of you, and I hope you’re proud of yourself, too.”

Pope takes a moment, thinks about that. Is he proud of himself? It’s hard to say. He supposes that he has come far since he first walked into this room, took stock of the others and immediately dismissed them as not worth his time. He’s come far in the sense that his nights are no longer dedicated completely to SAT prep or going over his notes; now, he has a group chat that keeps his phone buzzing regularly, has Kie, who wants his opinion on a documentary that she knows he’s seen before, has Sarah, who likes to send him photos of her latest endeavors in the kitchen, has John B, who still doesn’t have a phone but will meet Pope at the beach for some surfing whenever, has JJ, who pretty much pesters Pope about anything and everything that goes through his head. It’s baffling, but also endearing, and Pope isn’t quite sure what to make of it more often than not.

He’s decided that it’s nice, to have people in his life. It’s… refreshing. Invigorating, really, to have something other than school and work to think about, to participate in.

After Harriet’s rousing speech on how far they’ve come, she has them do some activity where they describe, in detail, their daily routine, from the moment they get up to the moment they go to bed. “As you are no longer going to be coming in each week, I want to go over your day-to-day routines, to help identify constructive and destructive choices we make throughout the day for ourselves,” she claims. “And to help us begin to identify our narrative.”

Pope isn’t exactly sure that describing their daily routine in detail is anything other than a major bore, but, like JJ and John B and Kie, he does it. Sarah’s empty seat, the usual clanging of her bracelets or tapping of her foot is a glaring hole in their circle. Pope knows that she would probably like this exercise, would look forward to hearing what they had to say about potentially destructive choices she makes, so that she can work not to make them in the future.

As for the rest of them, well, Pope kind of assumes that he has the most stable daily routine. Kiara may rival him in that on some days, but during her turn, she mentions how sometimes she’ll wake up and have no idea where to start, what to do, even what to wear.

“Those days, I’m difficult,” she says, sounding tired.

“Those days _are_ difficult,” Harriet corrects her. “And you do your best to get through them.” Kiara doesn’t have a response for that, just looks down quickly at her hands, which are clasped in her lap.

John B’s routine is difficult to listen to, because it’s so… barren. “I wake up, bike to school, go to class. After school I go to my neighbor’s house to do some yardwork, usually, or whatever chores she lays out that day. Then I bike home, go to bed.”

Harriet’s lips are pursed. “I’m sure there’s more you do. How about meals? Breakfast, dinner?”

“Of course,” John B says quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah, I eat at home.” Pope notices the other boy’s face reddening as he lies, knowing that three out of the four other people in this room could call him out on that if they were so inclined.

Of course, they don’t. And then JJ starts speaking, and Pope finds himself mesmerized by the other boy’s voice, listening more to the lilt and energy of his voice than the actual words, letting it wash over him like a wave.

It’s been like that since the first day, when JJ read Pope’s fear ‘failure’ in that rushed way of his. Since they’d started talking after the session, when JJ had said that he wasn’t there to make friends and Pope had agreed. But look at them now.

And that’s the thing; Pope has never had friends, let alone a romantic interest, so he can’t really tell the difference, if his interest in JJ is as simple as a newly developing friendship, or what. All he knows is that he doesn’t get lost in Sarah or Kiara or John B’s voice like he does in JJ’s.

“My routine’s a little different now,” JJ is saying. “When I was with my dad, it was, like, I’d do whatever I could to stay out of the house. When I was there, if I was lucky, I’d be able to lock myself in my room before he’d see me. Now, though, with Peterkin…” JJ shrugs. “It’s… strange. I’m still adjusting, I guess. But it’s kind of nice, to be able to walk into the house and not have to worry about what sort of mood he’s in, or how the night’s going to end. Also, I can’t smoke in my room anymore, which _really_ shook up my daily routine, let me tell you.”

Harriet smiles and starts going off about the importance of feeling safe in a home environment and how the stability of a routine can help with that. Pope finds his eyes drawn to Kie’s leg, which is bouncing rapidly next to his, and he knows that she’s thinking about Sarah, that she’s been watching the clock since they sat down, discreetly checking her phone every so often. Pope isn’t getting any notifications on his, which means the two girls are likely communicating in their own chat.

That’s fine. He and JJ do the same.

“Pope, would you like to share your routine?” Harriet gently prods, apparently done with her therapeutic rant.

“Uh, sure,” he says. Glances at the clock; they have fifteen minutes left. “I get up around six, usually help my dad fill some orders until six forty-five, leave for school around seven fifteen. In my free periods I sometimes tutor underclassmen, or work on my scholarship application.” He drones on, making sure to list each bland thing he does throughout the day to please Harriet.

By the time he’s finished, they have a little less than ten minutes left. Harriet purses her lips.

“And when do you have time for yourself?” She asks mildly. “Any time to relax, to take a break?”

Pope wants to scoff at her but manages to keep his gut reaction at bay. What does she mean, take a break? A break from what? His life, his responsibilities?

“I don’t,” he says, but even as he does, he thinks about being on the beach with JJ, surfing with him and John B. Time that he takes for himself, for his own enjoyment, outside of any school or work obligations. “I don’t need a break.”

“Everyone deserves a break, Pope,” Harriet says in her calm, all-knowing way. “It’s important to take time for ourselves, even a moment each day, to just indulge in yourself. Find something that you can do that allows you to be calm, in the moment. For example,” Harriet gestures to herself, “I meditate for ten minutes each day. It allows me to take stock of myself, really tune in to how I’m feeling at that moment.” She smiles at them. “Of course, meditation isn’t for everyone. I encourage you to find whatever works for you, and stick to it, add it to your daily routine. I can help provide things to try, but ultimately, it is up to you to find what will work best.”

As usual, Pope has no intention of taking Harriet’s advice. Meditation sounds awful. Sitting in one position, not doing anything? No thanks. Pope knows for a fact that he would be positively itching with the need to move, to do something. Why waste his own time when there is so much that needs to be done each day?

Clearly, Kiara is on the same page. “That’s great,” she says, before looking pointedly at the clock, which shows that it’s just before five. “Can we go now?”

If Harriet is miffed by Kiara’s rather rude demand, she doesn’t show it. “Of course, have a good week,” she says pleasantly. Kie shoots up from her seat, followed by JJ, John B, and Pope. They’re almost at the door when Harriet calls out to them, “I hope to see you again, if just to hear how things are going. And, if you happen to see Sarah, please remind her that she can reach out to me, any time. All of you can.”

They pause, glance at each other. “Got it,” John B says finally.

“Thanks,” Pope adds, and they’re out the door.

Kiara is a flurry of movement the moment they’re outside. “We have to go get her,” she’s saying, voice slightly shaky. “I can’t believe we haven’t gone yet, she wouldn’t have hesitated, I _knew_ I shouldn’t have listened to her, I –”

“Kie,” John B interrupts her, putting his hands on her shoulders. Lightly, like he’s unsure about how she might react to it. “We’re going to get her. But we have to do what she asks, you know that.” He cracks a grin. “She’d kill us if we staged a rescue without her permission.”

JJ and Pope exchange a glance. It’s true; after a few weeks of getting to know the girl, it became pretty clear that when Sarah has a plan, it’s best to just do as she says.

Kie still looks panicked, her eyes wide and searching as she looks for answers on John B’s face. “But what if it’s not even her, on her phone? What if her dad got it and he’s planning something and –”

This time, it’s JJ who interrupts. “Kie, that’s crazy talk,” he drawls. “Mr. Cameron is a douchebag, but he’s not low enough to take his daughter’s phone and send false texts to her friends. Probably.”

Kie doesn’t look too reassured, so Pope jumps in. “And, even if he was, why would he invite us to come stage a jail break for her tonight?” Then he pauses, his mind already concocting a dozen possible reasons as to why Sarah’s dad might do that. “Unless, he’s like, planning an ambush or something.”

Kie rolls her eyes, looking a little more calmed down. “You guys are all idiots.” Gently, she shrugs off John B’s hands, but then grabs him, tugs him over to Pope and JJ. “But, I’m really glad that we’ve met,” she says, her voice quiet.

“Me too,” John B says. Looks down, runs his hand through his scruffy hair. Pope wonders how long it’s been since he cut it, wonders who cuts it for him, if anyone.

Pope swallows, trying to ignore how thick his throat feels all of a sudden. “Same.”

Kie smiles softly, opens her arms and drags John B in under one arm, Pope under the other, looks at JJ, beckoning.

“Alright, let’s save the sappiness for later,” JJ says, but goes in to hug them all the same. They stand like that for a moment, bodies pressed against each other, breathing the same air, before Kie pulls away with a laugh that sounds only a little bit shaky.

“Alright,” she says. “Now lets plan Operation: Save Sarah.”

__

So that’s how Pope ended up here, in his father’s pick-up truck, parked at the end of Sarah Cameron’s driveway. Getting the truck from his dad had been an endeavor in itself; Mr. Heyward couldn’t understand why his introvert son was suddenly requesting to use the truck to meet up with friends at night –something Pope had never once done in his whole life—but finally relented when Pope pointed out that the whole point of therapy was for him to connect with his peers, and now that it was over, he didn’t want to stop Pope’s progress, did he?

Once Pope got the car, he went to pick up JJ, John B, and Kiara from the Wreck, where Kie had been nice enough to treat the boys to a meal of whatever leftovers the kitchen had to offer. She’d brought a lobster roll out for Pope when he had texted he was there.

“We ready for this?” She asks, pulling herself into the back row with John B, while JJ swings himself into the front seat. Kie’s practically bouncing with energy, while John B and JJ look more subdued. Pope finds himself stealing a glance at JJ, who looks almost ethereal in the late evening light, before he quickly looks back at his hands, gripping the steering wheel.

“Sarah knows we’re coming?” Pope asks as he puts the car in drive. Kie bobs her head.

“Yep. So, the plan is –”

“We wait in the car while you go get the damsel in distress, we got it,” JJ says, cutting her off. “Don’t worry, none of us are going to steal your chance to be the knight in shining armor.” He winks at her in the review mirror, and Kie leans forward to smack his arm, but she’s grinning, her cheeks flushed.

John B sighs, settles against the window. “Wake me when she’s here,” he says, and closes his eyes. Pope watches him for a moment, worried, before JJ taps his shoulder lightly.

“Don’t worry about him, it’s been a long week.”

Pope is kind of surprised, and maybe a little confused, as to how quickly JJ and John B had become friends over the past few weeks. Ever since they’d seen John B’s home, JJ had been making a point to hang with the other boy, inviting him to go surfing with him and Pope, or having him over for dinner, that sort of thing. More often than not, John B declined, but JJ certainly seemed to be putting in the effort to engage John B in things outside of school.

Which Pope understands, of course. He gets that John B is alone and needs all the support he can get. He gets that JJ is living with the sheriff, is gearing up for his dad’s trial, maybe needs something to distract him from his own less-than-ideal life. He understands that life hasn’t been easy for either of them, that JJ wants to offer help in any way that he can. He’s not jealous. How could he be, when he understands it? When he wants to offer John B the same help, but he just doesn’t know how?

Okay, maybe he’s a little jealous. But that’s ridiculous and he really doesn’t want to investigate any further into why he’s jealous, because it’s stupid and selfish and overall makes his stomach twist in an uncomfortable way. So, he doesn’t think about it.

“Okay, Sarah’s room is on the second floor. Apparently, she’s still locked in, though she says her dad is gone.” Kie is saying to herself, scrolling through messages on her phone.

“So, what, you’re going to break into the house and let her out?” JJ asks. The window is down, blowing JJ’s hair around like they’re in some shampoo commercial, and Pope resolutely keeps his eyes on the road.

Kiara shakes her head. “No, her brother is home. I’m going to climb to her window and let her out that way.”

John B speaks up from where his head is resting against the window, not even bothering to open his eyes. Pope had honestly thought the boy was asleep, but apparently not. “So this is a serious damsel in distress situation,” he says. “Sleeping beauty situation.” 

“I think you mean a Rapunzel situation,” JJ corrects. John B lifts a shoulder, unbothered.

Kiara rolls her eyes. “It’s a _save our friend from her crazy father_ situation,” she says, then glances at JJ. She looks like she wants to say something more but decides not to.

“Well, good luck, Price Charming,” Pope says, pulling to a stop. They’ve reached Sarah’s neighborhood, a long stretch of fancy, ridiculously large houses with an ocean view.

“Pretty sure that’s still the wrong movie,” Kie says as she pushes the door open, jumping out. “Have the car ready,” she instructs. “I’ll be back soon.”

The boys watch as she takes off down the driveway, cutting across onto the lawn before she disappears from sight, the house being set farther back from the road, blocked by a wall of impressive trees. Pope glances at JJ, who is gazing out the window, and wonders what he’s thinking. Wonders if he wished he’d had friends who’d do this for him, when he was living with his dad.

Not for the first time, Pope feels a rush of anger. Anger at JJ’s dad, at the fact that JJ had spent so long in such a shitty situation with nobody to help, nobody to reach out too. Anger at the unfairness of such an amazing person being treated so poorly.

JJ looks over, catches Pope’s gaze. “Something wrong?” He asks.

Pope blinks, shakes his head, both to clear it and to indicate nothing’s wrong. “Just thinking,” he says.

JJ snorts. “Don’t think too hard, you’ll overwork that big brain of yours.”

“Don’t bully him,” John B says from the backseat. He’s sitting up now, eyes trained on the driveway.

They all go silent, waiting for the two girls to show up. Pope feels himself getting anxious, worrying that something must’ve gone wrong, that Kie got caught, or Sarah had set her up, or she’d fallen from the two-story height, or maybe Sarah’s dad _had_ planned an ambush, and they’re like sitting ducks waiting in this car –

“There they are!” JJ crows, suddenly jack-knifing forwards. Pope jerks up too, turns the key to start the car as John B reaches over, pushes the door open for the girls. They tumble in, laughing breathlessly.

“Go, go, go!” Sarah cries, detangling herself from where she’d thrown herself on top of Kie. Pope waits for her to pull the door shut before peeling out of there.

“A success!” Kie declares, sitting up straight. Both she and Sarah are smiling, cheeks rosy. Pope glances at them in the review mirror. Sarah looks no worse for wear, eyes bright as she leans in and plants a kiss on the other girl’s cheek.

“My hero,” she says admiringly, not a hint of mockery. Kie grins, gazing back at Sarah, and Pope notices that she looks more awake than she has in ages, practically glowing.

“How’d it go?” Pope asks. “What happened? Also, where are we going?”

“My house?” Kie suggests. “My parents aren’t home.” Pope nods, heading in the direction he thinks he remembers from last time they were there.

“It was _amazing_ ,” Sarah’s saying. “One minute I’m sitting there, trying to decide if I’m going to have to try to knock out my brother with my lamp or something, which, frankly, he would totally deserve, and the next, Kie’s knocking on my window like she’s out of a movie.” The adoration is clear in her voice.

“Well, I’m just glad you’re okay,” Kie says. “We all are.”

Sarah’s practically bouncing in her seat. “It’s so good to see you guys! How was the last session? I felt so bad I couldn’t come, I was so disappointed, but once my dad found out there was literally no way—”

“Don’t worry, we get it,” JJ interrupts. “Believe me.”

Sarah nods, smiling softly, before smiling. “I’m just so thankful for you guys.” She’s looking at Kie when she says it, but Pope hears the sincerity in her voice, knows she means it for all of them.

They chat idly all the way to Kie’s house, demanding more details from Sarah’s imprisonment and Kie’s daring rescue.

“He was just surprised, I think,” Sarah’s saying, an explanation for her dad’s reaction. “I mean, I guess it costs money. _Obviously_ it costs money, I’m not saying I thought therapy was free, but I should’ve known he’d find out one way or another.” She shrugs. “I’ll have to talk to him soon enough.”

“Aren’t you worried what he’ll do once he realizes you’re gone?” JJ asks casually. Cautiously.

Sarah bites her lip, but ultimately shakes her head. “I’ll deal with him,” she says confidently. “I’ll talk to him, maybe ask Harriet to help.”

John B leans forward, looking around Kie to make eye contact with Sarah. “We can help, too,” he says. “We’re here for you.”

She nods, face solemn.

When Pope pulls up to Kie’s house, she turns to them. “You guys want to come in?” She offers, climbing out with Sarah. Pope glances at the two girls, how their hands are intertwined, and shakes his head.

“I’m pretty beat,” he says, and JJ and John B nod in agreement. “We can catch up tomorrow?”

The girls nod, beaming, and wave their goodbyes as Pope pulls away.

“They’re definitely banging,” JJ says once they’re back on the main road. Pope sets a course for John B’s house without even thinking.

“One hundred percent,” John B agrees.

Pope glances between the two of them. “What? How can you tell?”

JJ laughs. “It’s obvious! They’ve definitely got a thing for each other.”

Pope nods. “Okay, yeah, I picked up on that.” It was hard not to. But now Pope is going over everything that pointed out Sarah and Kie’s interest in each other to him, frantically looking for similarities in how he acts around JJ. Has anyone picked up on _that_?

Soon enough, they’re outside John B’s house, illuminated solely by the headlights from Pope’s car. Pope tries to imagine this being his home, not even a light to turn on once inside. The thought makes him sad.

It’s silent for a moment, until JJ breaks it. “Dude,” he says, twisting to look at John B, who is shifting in the backseat, preparing to get out. “Don’t go in there.”

John B blinks slowly, hand resting on the door handle. Pope is once again struck by how damn tired the other boy looks, how he’s looked like a strong breeze could blow him over these past few weeks. He thinks about the state of the house when they’d gone to get him, full of clutter and yet empty of anything of worth. Pope isn’t sure how long John B’s been living like this, and he wonders how far John B can bend before he breaks.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” John B says, voice carefully nonchalant. He sounds defeated.

JJ reaches out, puts his hand on John B’s knee. Pope watches them, silent.

“Come home with me,” JJ says. His tone is light, not pushing, letting John B know that he has a choice. “I know Peterkin ain’t all that, but hell, she’s better than this.” He gestures to the dark house. “Let her help you, John B.” JJ’s eyes are dark, insistent. “You don’t need to be alone.”

John B’s still staring out the window, throat working as he takes in JJ’s words. Pope watches him through the review mirror as he takes a deep breath, then another. Slowly, his hand slips off the door handle, comes to rest in his lap.

“Okay,” he says, and Pope has never heard one word be so quiet, so resigned.

“Okay,” JJ says back to him. Pats him on the knee, before turning back to Pope. “Mind dropping us at my – at Peterkin’s?”

Pope stares back at this boy, this wonderful, selfless boy, who so clearly cares for others, maybe even more than he cares for himself. It’s dark, the only light coming from the glow of Pope’s dashboard, but JJ’s eyes are glowing with it and Pope just wants to grab his hand.

But he doesn’t. With a nod, he swings the truck around, so they’re facing away from John B’s dark house, and starts the drive home.

__

Pope gets home late that night, and sleeps in late the next morning. In fact, his mom has to come wake him up, something that’s happened so rarely that they’re both shocked by it.

“Someone’s here to see you,” she says. “A boy from therapy?” She phrases it carefully, like mentioning therapy might trigger Pope somehow.

Pope bolts upright, staring at his mom. “JJ?” He asks. She shrugs.

“He didn’t say,” she says. “But he looks like he could use a good meal. Why don’t you get dressed and see what he wants.”

A good meal? That could be either JJ or John B. Quickly, Pope throws on a t-shirt and jeans, rinses his mouth with mouthwash, and all but runs to the front door.

“JJ,” he says, feeling breathless. The other boy stands a few feet from the door, looking uncomfortable, but he brightens when Pope steps out.

“Hey, Pope,” he says. Doesn’t say anything else. Pope realizes the silence has gone on too long, that he’s stared a bit too much.

“Want to go for a walk?” He offers quickly, and JJ nods.

They set off, Pope leading them down a path that goes along the beach. He feels jittery, caught off guard. Nobody’s ever been to his house before; his mother was probably floored when someone rang the doorbell asking for Pope. He sticks his hands in his pockets, kicks the sand, desperately thinking of something to say, as JJ seems content to remain silent.

“How’s John B?” He asks. The other boy had seemed slightly terrified when Pope had dropped him and JJ at Peterkin’s last night, trying to stammer out excuses as to why he couldn’t actually come in, he changed his mind. JJ had been persistent, though, and eventually, the two had made it out of the car and up to the front door, though Pope was pretty sure John B had been trembling the whole way. “He talk with Peterkin?”

JJ bods his head. “Yeah. I explained a bit of the situation to her, I think they’re gonna talk more today.” He shrugs. “He needed some help, somewhere to go. I couldn’t just watch him walk back into that house.”

“I’m glad,” Pope says, and he is. Glad that John B didn’t walk into that dark house last night, glad that JJ was able to offer him help, offer him an alternative. Glad that John B accepted. Pope just wished he had something to offer, some way to help as well.

They’re silent for a bit longer. Pope can sense that JJ wants to say something, has wanted to say something since Pope opened the door. He waits him out.

Eventually, JJ sighs loudly. Not looking at Pope, he says, “canyoucomewithmetomydadstrial.”

Pope stops walking. “What?”

JJ pauses as well, still not looking at Pope, facing the ocean. Takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes. “Can you come with me… to my dad’s trial.”

Pope’s mind goes blank. Of all the things he’d thought JJ was going to say, that was not it. But – “Of course,” he says hurriedly. “Of course, JJ. When is it?”

JJ opens his eyes, but he’s still not looking at Pope. “In three weeks. I totally get it if you don’t want to come, it’s long and probably going to be boring and it’s weird that I even asked, I’m sorry –”

“JJ,” Pope interrupts. Steps forwards. “It’s not weird. _Of course_ I’ll go with you. I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

JJ nods, throat working, blinking rapidly, and, not for the first time, Pope finds himself amazed by the boy before him.

“I just – how do you manage it?”

JJ barks a laugh, harsh and quick, and Pope is suddenly worried that he’s said the wrong thing. “Manage it?” JJ repeats. “Manage _what_? I haven’t been managing anything since the day I went home with Peterkin.” He gestures to himself, movements sharp, jerky. “I am a complete and total _fucking mess_ ,” he says, and Pope feels his heart break just a little with the resigned sincerity in JJ’s words. “My mom knew it, and she left. My dad knew it and look where he is now. My whole life has been a fucking _joke_ because I’m too goddam weak to do anything about it, too damn stupid to even know where to _start_ , and now I’m just waiting for Peterkin and John B and Kie and Sarah and you to catch on, and –”

JJ is abruptly cut off by Pope. More specifically, Pope’s mouth on his mouth. Pope isn’t sure, exactly, what compelled him to do this, and he’s worried that it’s blatantly obvious that he’s never done it before. And then, when JJ freezes for a moment, he’s worried that he made a horrible, disastrous mistake.

JJ pulls back, eyes wide but face uncharacteristically blank. Oh god. Pope feels like he’s hollow inside, every nerve on shut down as he tries to reconcile his action with this reaction. Of _course_ , he fucked up the only real notion of friendship he’s ever had, ruined his relationship with the one person he actually kind of _cared about_ –

“Why did you do that?” JJ asks, his voice very soft.

Pope can’t even look at him, looks down at his hands, which are shaking, as he blinks rapidly. “JJ, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking, I just –”

This time, it’s Pope who gets cut off as JJ takes his face in his hands and presses his lips to Pope’s. Pope’s eyes open wide, mind blank with shock, before he takes his own hands and gently rests them on JJ’s shoulders before moving them up to his hair, which feels exactly as Pope had imagined so many times before, thick and tangled but deceptively soft and warm. JJ kisses like he’s done it before, tastes like salt and sweat and cinnamon, his lips chapped from the sun but they still manage to feel like heaven against his.

Realistically, the kiss lasts for less than a minute, but to Pope it feels as though time has stopped. Nothing else matters, because _JJ Maybank is kissing him_.

All too soon, JJ pulls back, and Pope opens his eyes, stares at him, speechless. JJ’s cheeks are pink, eyes bright and a little wild, and Pope thinks he’s never seen anyone so beautiful.

“Why’d you do that?” Pope finds himself repeating JJ’s question from moments ago, breathless.

JJ shrugs. “I mean, you did it first.”

Pope laughs, nods. His whole body still feels like it’s buzzing, reeling from what just happened. “Yeah. I just – it’s something I’ve thought about for a while. Never really thought about _how_ or _when_ but then you were talking about everything and about me _leaving you_ and just–“ Pope pauses, looks up at JJ, who is staring at him. “That’s not going to happen. I’m with you, JJ. I want to _be_ with you, I think you’re amazing and fun and strong and just overall an incredible person, and I really, really like you.”

Pope feels wrung out, like all of his energy has gone into that little declaration. But it’s true, it’s all true. Pope may not have many friends –a few weeks ago, he wouldn’t say he had _any_ friends—but listening to JJ say those things about himself was unacceptable.

“And you’re _not_ weak,” he continues. “I don’t know where the fuck you got that idea, but you’re one of the best, strongest people I know. You’re so fucking selfless and amazing and you deserve amazing things and I’m just so, so glad that you’re with Peterkin now, and that you ended up in therapy, and that _I_ ended up in therapy, because my life is so much better now with you in it, JJ,” he finishes, a little breathless, heart pounding. It’s the sincerest words Pope thinks he’s ever spoken, and by the way JJ is staring at him he’s a bit worried that he broke the other boy.

JJ’s eyes are bright, and with a start Pope realizes they’re shiny with tears. JJ laughs wetly, glances down, then back at up at Pope, blinking rapidly. “I guess,” he says, teasing tone lessened by the choked sound of his voice, “that my life is better with you in it, too.”

Now Pope is the one feeling tears prick at his eyes, and he grins, wide and easy, as he takes JJ’s hand in his. The past six weeks have been filled with things Pope had never expected from his life, but he’s not complaining. Is he sad that therapy is over? No, not really. Is he grateful for what came from it? Yes, for sure.

JJ’s hand is warm in his, the sun flashing in his hair, his eyes. Pope turns back in the direction they came, still smiling. “Want to come over for breakfast?” He asks. He can already imagine the looks on his parents faces when they walk in, when they see Pope with someone else his own age, smiling and laughing. He hopes that they’ll be proud, that they’ll recognize that Pope’s guidance counselor was right, after all. Wonders if they’ve already realized that, already noticed a change in their boy. Pope certainly has.

JJ grins back. “Thought you’d never ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and they go back to pope's house and eat pancakes.
> 
> its finished. yay! thank you everyone who has been reading/kudoing/commenting along the way!! I love hearing what you think so thank you to all who have left a comment, you kept me going!! please, if you've made it this far, feel free to let me know what you think, what other scenes you might like to see. I had a lot of fun writing this and am so glad that so many of you enjoyed it<3
> 
> disclaimer: i have literally never written romance in my life and I pray that it doesn't show lol. i do be trying
> 
> thank you all so much for reading!


	7. peterkin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well well well bet you thought you'd seen the last of me..
> 
> anyways this chapter is dedicated to the user Zoe__eoZ who's comment on the previous chapter inspired me to write this, and to all of you who have supported this story! thank you thank you thank you! i cherish every one of you and am so grateful and delighted that so many of you enjoyed this:)
> 
> disclaimer: i really know nothing about the fostering system or law enforcement on the outer banks, so just have some suspension of disbelief while reading this and you'll be golden.
> 
> as usual, not beta read and i read over it once before posting so please let me know of any glaring issues. otherwise, enjoy!

Susan Peterkin is many things, but a mother, she is not.

Being the only daughter of a man who wanted a son, and never exactly let her forget it, had ruined any image of creating a family in her mind. Rather, she’d pursued her interest in law enforcement, which allowed her to pour her time, skills and energy into dealing with the absolute _dumbass_ population of the Outer Banks.

More often than not, she dealt with petty theft or was called in to settle feuds between neighbors. Occasionally, she’d get a drunk driver or a domestic dispute, and in some rare instances, investigating a sailor gone missing at sea. In most cases, the perceived missing individual turned up days later, drunk off their ass on the mainland.

Not always, though.

But her work was enough to fill the void that some people filled with a family, with a significant other and kids and a dog. Susan has no need for any of that; the Outer Banks is her family. And it’s her job to make sure they’re safe and cared for. Which she can do just fine as the sheriff; nothing more.

So, taking in the Maybank boy was probably one of the most unprecedented things Susan Peterkin has done in her life.

JJ was a special case. Susan had been called in late on a Thursday night because the boy had turned up at the hospital, alone, with a severe concussion and several bruised and broken ribs. Apparently, he’d initially tried to play it off as a surfing accident but had eventually broken down and revealed to the nurse who’d been tending to him that actually, his dad did this to him.

Susan still remembers the look in JJ’s eye when she’d shown up in his hospital room. The kid had been laying despondently in bed, bandages peeking out from beneath his standard-issued hospital gown, staring blankly at the wall. When she’d announced her presence, the absolute panic that had washed over him, his knee-jerk reaction to _get away_ had been painful to watch, but Susan didn’t let her reactions show. She’d come in uniform, and knew that to the boy, she represented nothing good. She settled in a chair against the wall, noticing how JJ had relaxed slightly once she was no longer blocking the doorway and was seated a bit of a distance from him, and then she’d talked.

She’d told him about his options, as a minor. How they could try and track down his closest living relative. JJ had snorted at that and muttered a ‘good luck’. Susan then told him about his options with his dad; how he could press charges, if he wants, and she swore she’d do her damndest to make sure Luke Maybank pays.

“I have nowhere to go without him,” JJ had said, matter-of-fact tone just barely hiding his devastation.

“You can stay with me,” Susan had responded immediately, almost surprising herself. JJ’s eyes had widened slightly, and Susan knew he was thinking of all the times she’d nearly busted him for drinking or smoking, knew he was weighing his options; live with the sheriff or deal with the system alone?

In the end, the decision wasn’t that difficult. Susan got the paperwork in order and officially became a licensed foster parent, with JJ Maybank as her first foster kid.

Any weaker soul might’ve given up on him, and with hm, their dreams of being a foster parent. JJ was not easy. At first, he’d been wary around Susan. Would skirt around her in when they were in the same room, hold himself stiff and quiet at the dinner table, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. It had been sad and annoying and had lasted about a week, and only really ended with repeated reassurances from Susan that she wasn’t going to hit him or make him feel worthless, _ever_ , no matter what he did.

After that, he certainly seemed to relax a bit around her, enough to start teasing her, to start trying to bend the rules she’d put in place. She remembers the stricken look on his face when he thought he went too far, one time, or when she’d found him smoking out his window.

“Nobody is going to hurt you in this house,” she’d told him, again and again. Until he almost seemed to believe it.

The therapy seemed to be helping, too. Susan was friends with someone who’d known Harriet, had recommended her therapy group for JJ. Of course, JJ’d put up a fight at first, yelling about how some shrink wasn’t going to make him feel better, let alone sitting in a circle with a bunch of kooks and being encouraged to share his feelings. His complaints landed on deaf ears; Susan made it clear that because she cared about him, he needed to do this. And she’d just continued to drag him there until his protests became more of a routine than genuine feeling, until he’d stopped protesting all together and started mentioning names like _Pope_ and _Kie_ and _Sarah_ and _John B_.

Then, of course, the boy’s piece of shit father had the gall to show up at _her house_ and attack his son while he was under _her care_.

There was already a restraining order on Luke in an effort to keep him away from JJ as the man’s court date approached. Sure, the Outer Banks wasn’t massive, but it wasn’t tiny, either, and Susan had been perhaps naïve in her confidence that Luke would stay away.

He did not, and Susan had spent an exhausting few nights dealing with JJ’s rage, his unspoken sense of betrayal.

“You said I’d be safe here,” he finally said, voice cracked and shaky, after a long, tense conversation where JJ’d mostly yelled and Susan’d mostly sat there and took it. He wouldn’t look at her, eyes darting around everywhere except her own.

“I did,” Susan had said slowly, making her movements slow and predictable as she comes to kneel in front of JJ. “I’m sorry, I was wrong.” She leaned back, considering. “I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen again. We can assign an officer to be posted outside the house, just until your father’s hearing.”

When JJ didn’t say anything, Susan offered the next possibility, JJ’s safety at the forefront of her mind. “Or we could move you to another house, since your father knows this location-”

“No,” JJ had said hurriedly, finally looking at her. “No, I don’t want to go somewhere else.”

Susan nodded, letting her face betray nothing even though the boy’s words… warm her. She’ll admit, JJ has grown on her. It’s nice to have another body in the house, someone that forces Susan to end work at a reasonable hour so she can come home to eat dinner at the kitchen table like a civilized person.

“And I don’t want you to go somewhere else, either,” Susan found herself saying, because JJ is a kid who has been abandoned by his mom and taken from his dad and needs just a semblance of normalcy, a shred of stability from an adult in his life. And Susan, well, she could do that for him.

After that, they got even more comfortable together, falling into a routine. Susan takes JJ to school, to therapy. They make dinner together; JJ always offers to do the dishes and has learned to school his expression into something neutral when Susan tries to cook something new, even when they mutually decide it’s trash and order pizza instead.

She’s gotten used to having someone else in her life, in her house. She likes checking in on JJ, hearing how his day has been going. No longer gets startled when she hears the floorboards creak at night, remembering she now looks after another person.

And that’s when JJ brings John B into her life.

Susan knows the name. Routledge. The kid’s father had gone missing about a year ago, declared officially dead a few months later. After that, Susan had pretty much signed the boy over to DCS, trusting them to take care of it. She’d heard that the boy’s uncle came to stay with him, and she’d left it at that.

Once JJ brought John B home, late on Friday after their last therapy session, it was clear that the boy’s uncle was not staying with him, probably hadn’t been for some time. JJ had deposited his friend in the living room, then had brought Susan into the kitchen, giving her an abbreviated overview of why John B was here.

“Can you help him?” JJ had asked.

Susan had nodded, gazing past JJ, into the living room where John B sat tense on the couch, elbows on his knees and head in his hands.

That first night, Susan and John B had talked for over an hour, with JJ hovering in the periphery. John B had seemed resigned, barely responding to things Susan was saying, as if he couldn’t care what happened to him.

“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” she finally says. “Let me show you where you can sleep.”

Taking in John B was different from taking in JJ. While JJ had been all nervous energy and suspicious looks, Susan got the sense that John B was only doing things in fear of being seen as an inconvenience if he _didn’t_ do them. She heard from JJ, who had actually been inside John B’s house, that the boy did the absolute bare minimum when it came to taking care of himself, and the trend seemed to be continuing here.

He’d eat, but only at meals; Susan never saw any evidence of the John B snacking, even though she started buying double the amount of food to account for having _two_ teenage boys in the house rather than just one. He didn’t seem comfortable around her; at the beginning, like she had with JJ, Susan had outlined the expectations she had for him, and gave him an opportunity to outline some for her as well. It was clear that John B hadn’t known what to say, settling for a noncommittal ‘it’s your house’ when she pressed him for ideas of what to avoid doing that might make him uncomfortable.

Apart from things like dinner and chores, she rarely sees John B. He’s like a shadow in the house; rarely making any noise or drawing attention to his presence. He does his chores without complaint, working in tandem with JJ, who fills the space with his boisterous attitude and constant chatter. That, at least, was one good thing; John B seems infinitely more relaxed with JJ around.

But it can’t go on like this. She needs John B to realize that he isn’t the temporary, unwanted houseguest that he’s acting like. She needs John B to realize that, if he wants it, this could be a home. Which is why Susan specifically waits for a day when JJ is out at the Heyward boy’s house before confronting John B.

It’s a Saturday morning, early but not too early, and Susan is standing by the coffeemaker when John B pads into the kitchen, stopping short when he sees her, and perhaps more specifically, the feast she’d prepared.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Susan says, before pointing to the kitchen table. “Sit.”

John B does, looking up at her through the fringe of his hair. Christ, the boy needs a haircut.

“Don’t you have work?” He asks, not moving to reach for any of the food Susan had prepared.

Susan grabbed two mugs and poured coffee into them, passing one to John B, who took it after a moment without a word.

“I got the day off,” she says in response. “So, I figured I’d make us some breakfast.” John B doesn’t respond, just nods and casts his gaze back down at the table.

In all honesty, Susan is pretty proud of herself. French toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon just past the ‘slightly burnt’ stage. Normally she’s a ‘cup of coffee will suffice’ type of breakfast person, but the whole point of this was to show John B that she’s actually committed to his wellbeing and prepared to take care of him. So, breakfast.

“Thanks,” John B says after a long moment. Susan just nods, helping herself to some food. John B does the same. For a few minutes, they eat in companionable silence, though Susan can see from the tense lines of John B’s shoulders that he’s expecting her to say something. Well, at least he’s not oblivious.

“So,” Susan says after a few minutes, noting how John B stills, not looking at her. “John. I’m curious. How are you?”

John B looks surprised by the question. He shrugs and stabs some more eggs onto his fork, taking a bite. “I’m good,” he says around them. “Just dandy.”

Susan nods, contemplative. She’d thought a bit about what she wanted to say to John B, but hadn’t really scripted how to lead the conversation there. Well, she’s never been one to do anything but beat around the bush, so might as well just go all in.

“I’ve noticed you don’t seem very comfortable here,” she says bluntly.

That incites a reaction that she wasn’t really expecting. John B’s gaze shoots up, meeting hers for the first time since he entered the kitchen. The panic is clear on his face.

“I’m sorry, Peterkin, I mean, uh, Susan. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful –”

Susan holds up a hand, silencing the boy, who is looking more distraught by the second. “John, don’t worry,” she says. “I didn’t mean that. I don’t think you’re ungrateful. I think you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Because that was it, she’d figured out. Like how JJ had flinched away from her for the first few weeks, had pushed and pushed and pushed, waiting to see what would make her snap. John B was also waiting, but for something else; waiting for her to pass him off to the next available person. To abandon him, as every parental figure in his life had done so far.

John B’s wide eyes are answer enough. He swallowed, then sighed, looking resigned. Susan plows ahead. “I want to make it clear to you, that will never happen. I’m happy to be your guardian as long as you’re happy here,” she says seriously. “This isn’t a temporary placement if you don’t want it to be. I know that you’ve been alone for a long time, and in part, that’s my fault. I let you slip through the cracks when I shouldn’t have, and for that, I’m sorry. I wish I could go back and change that, but I can’t.”

John B’s face is blank. Susan is normally pretty good at reading people – comes with the job – but for the life of her, she has no idea what’s going on in the boy’s head.

“I want you to be supported, to be provided for,” she continues. “ _I_ want to support you, to provide for you. I will fight for you. And if this isn’t where you want to be, I’ll help you find somewhere you’re more comfortable. But please, know that you are welcome here. You are more than a guest; this is your home now.” She cracks a rare smile. “Besides, living alone with JJ might just drive me insane.”

John B smiles slightly at that, but he quickly drops his gaze, staring down at his plate. It’s only then that Susan notices he’s crying, silently, like almost everything else he does. She gets up slowly and comes around to his side of the table, kneeling next to him so that she’s looking up at him.

John B finally meets her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, but Susan waves the apology off.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” she says, matter of fact. Because it’s the truth. “I just want you to know, John B, that I am here for you, and will always be here for you. And so is JJ, and Pope, and Sarah, and Kiara.” The ‘therapy squad’, as Susan has heard Sarah Cameron refer to them as, has come over enough times for Susan to say that and know the truth of it. Seeing five teens piled into her living room on a Friday night, watching movies and throwing popcorn into each other’s mouths, is a sight Susan never thought she’d see, but now, she can’t imagine her life before them.

“I know,” John B says after a moment. “I’m just – it’s been so long since I’ve lived with people.”

Susan knows that, of course, but hearing him say it out loud is like a punch to the gut, because that’s part of her _job_ , to help kids before they’re ever in that situation. But she’d failed John B, and it would probably be a long time until she forgives herself, but she can start by doing her best to help the boy actually feel comfortable in this situation.

Susan nods, puts her hand on John B’s knee in a grounding gesture. John B stares at it as if nobody has ever touched him in such a way. Parental, supportive. “That’s understandable,” she says. “It’ll be an adjustment. Already is an adjustment, I’m sure. But I’m going to work with you to make it as smooth as possible.”

John B nods, tears finally spilling out and sliding down his cheeks. Susan stands, then opens her arms. “Come here,” she says.

John B stands, and though he’s taller, all lanky limbs that scream sixteen years old, she tucks him into his arms. At first, he kind of just stands there, but eventually he wraps his arms around her. Susan waits for him to pull away, and when he does, she ruffles his hair. The boy smiles, ducking his head.

They take their places at the table again, resuming breakfast, but Susan can’t deny the shift in the mood. It’s subtle, but John B already seems lighter.

Then, the door bangs open, JJ’s voice filtering through the house, followed closely by Pope’s. They stumble into the kitchen, JJ grinning widely while Pope seems to be lecturing him on something, albeit fondly. They stop when they see Susan and John B at the table.

“Hey John B,” Pope says, smiling, before nodding at Susan, clearly nervous despite having been in her house multiple times before.

“Peterkin!” JJ says immediately. “What’s this, waiting until I leave to actually become domestic and cook some decent food?”

Susan smiles slightly. “Yes, John B and I were actually celebrating your absence with some French toast.” She gestures to the food, because there’s still plenty of it. “Please, have some.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” JJ says, dragging up a chair next to John B and slinging his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “C’mon, Pope, have a seat!”

“JJ, we literally just ate,” Pope says, but sits down on the other side of John B anyways.

“John B, glad you’re up,” JJ says while simultaneously shoving a piece of bacon into his mouth. “Pope and I were going to go surfing, so we swang by to make you join us.”

“I believe the correct word is ‘swung’,” Pope says. JJ flips him off.

“Fuck that! For all we know it’s ‘swinged’,” JJ says.

“For all we know – JJ, it’s literally the English language, not something we just make up as we go along –”

John B rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. Susan sits back and watches as the three banter with each other, pushing and taunting just enough to be a bit more than friendly. They’re so comfortable with each other, so at ease that watching them Susan gets a pang in her chest. A fond, proud pang.

“C’mon, get your board,” JJ says, and then they’re off, JJ bouncing to his feet while John B brings the dishes to the sink and Pope helps clear the table. He almost starts doing the dishes too, but Susan waves him off.

“Go on, I’ll clean up,” she says, and JJ grins brightly and John B smiles and Pope nods in thanks, and then they’re off, her boys out the door in a whirl.

Susan watches them go, smiling to herself. Her boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao this was kinda cheesy. but hope you enjoyed if you made it this far!! thank you so much for reading, I hope you all are well and I wish you a wonderful day<3

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on this for some time and am very excited to finally share it:) please feel free to drop a comment or a kudo if you enjoyed!! 
> 
> also please note: I've never been in a group therapy session and am winging it off a combo of research, things i've picked up from books/shows, and my own ideas.


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